Auntie Mayhem

by Mary Daheim

  Claire tried to look shocked. “Now Charles, we mustn’t be disrespectful. We’ve got a funeral to plan. We should set it for Thursday, don’t you think? That way, it won’t spoil the weekend.”

  Charles’s attempt at solemnity was only a partial success. “I’ll go ’round tonight and see the vicar. Have those blasted policemen left yet?”

  Nats jiggled her wineglass. “They have not. Two are up in the storerooms, two more are outside, and Wattle and Daub are in the wine cellar. Or so Harwood said when he fetched this 1983 Mercurey Chateau de Chamirey.”

  “Sod all,” Alex muttered, but good-naturedly. “Coppers are a bloody great nuisance. I say, Charles,” he went on with a sly look in his dark eyes, “just how much do you figure we’ll get straight away? You know the family finances, after all.”

  “Well.” Charles cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “I shouldn’t like to hazard a guess just now. I’ll go over everything in the next few days. Then I can be more precise. It doesn’t do to conjecture when it comes to money.”

  Apparently something in Charles’s manner had disturbed his wife. She leaned forward at the opposite end of the table, whispering as if they were the only two people in the room.

  “It is all right, isn’t it, Charles? I mean, there are no…surprises?”

  Charles laughed again, but somehow he didn’t sound quite so hearty. “Certainly not, m’dear! Everything’s right as rain! Oh, as I mentioned earlier, there have been a few reversals, but that’s the way of high finance. No need for you to worry your pretty head.”

  Nats rested one elbow on the table. “What about my pretty head, Charles?”

  Charles speared a slice of cheese. “Nor you, Nats. The worst that can happen is that your interest from the trust might be a trifle smaller than it would have been a year ago. But when it comes time for the trust fund to be turned over to you, you’ll be in clover.”

  “I should hope so.” Nats shot Charles an arch look. “The time is now.” She paused for only a beat, luring all eyes in her direction. “I may not reach thirty for a few years, but I am getting married. Now that Aunt Pet is dead, we can set the date.”

  Claire blinked several times, then put a hand to her breast. “‘We’? Who is ‘we,’ Nats?”

  “I’m one-half of ‘we,’ Claire.” Nats took a sip of wine, then smirked. “The other half is Walter Paget. Isn’t everybody happy for us?”

  It appeared to Judith that they were not. Alex dropped his fork, Charles let out an agonized growl, and Claire fainted dead away.

  TWELVE

  IT WAS HARWOOD who revived Claire by pouring a glass of water over her head. She spluttered and Charles protested, but the butler was unmoved.

  “Young ladies used to swoon a great deal,” he said woodenly. “Years ago, it was considered fashionable. Smelling salts are quite nasty. Water works just as well. Excuse me, sir, you’re stepping on Mrs. Marchmont’s hair.”

  Clumsily, Charles removed his foot which had been planted in Claire’s wet auburn tresses. “Sorry, old girl,” he mumbled. “Are you all right?”

  With her husband’s help, Claire struggled up on one elbow. “I think so. Oh! I feel dreadful! And dampish!” She ran a hand through her hair, which was now limp and plastered close to her head.

  Charles accepted Judith’s offer to help put Claire on her feet. “I’m feeling a bit peaked myself,” he confessed. “Shall we take you into the parlor or would you rather go upstairs?” he asked his wife.

  Harwood coughed. “I believe the police are still using the parlor as their temporary headquarters, sir. May I suggest the drawing room? A bit of brandy might be in order. And a towel. I’ll fetch one at once.” Harwood creaked off to the kitchen.

  Alex sprang for the door. “Brandy! What a jolly good idea! I’ll pour.” He was halfway across the hall before Judith and Charles could start dragging Claire out of the dining room.

  Renie was consolidating what was left of the cold collation. “Waste not, want not,” she said to Nats, who was calmly finishing her wine. “Grab a tray. We’ll take this into the dining room. And tell me why Claire passed out because you’re getting married.”

  Nats gave Renie a wry look as they slowed their step behind Judith, Charles and Claire. “Don’t ask me,” Nats said, then pointed to Claire, who seemed to be a dead weight between her bearers. “Claire?” Nats called, mischief dancing in her dark eyes. “Don’t you think Walter and I make an ideal couple?”

  Claire’s only response was to sag even more in the clutches of her husband and her guest. Nothing further was said until the group reached the dining room, where Claire was eased onto a Hepplewhite-inspired divan.

  “So embarrassing,” Claire sighed, a hand over her eyes. She rallied when Alex proffered brandy. “Just a sip. Oh! That’s very strong! This day has been such an ordeal! Can Auntie still have been alive twenty-four hours ago?”

  In truth, it seemed more like a week than a day to Judith as well. Reflexively, she accepted a snifter from Alex, then turned to Charles. “Should you call Dr. Ramsey?”

  Charles looked uncertain, but Claire brushed the idea aside. “Don’t disturb him. The doctor’s had a long day, too. I’ll be fine.” She gave Harwood a wan smile as he presented her with a kitchen towel.

  Judith waited for Charles to assist his wife, but he was pouring himself a brandy. Claire was making an ineffectual effort at rubbing her hair.

  “Let me help,” Judith offered, setting her snifter down on a side table.

  “How kind,” Claire murmured. As Judith worked with the towel, she felt Claire’s head turn toward the far end of the room, where Nats seemed absorbed in studying the marquetry work on a Boulle desk. When Claire spoke again, her voice was unnaturally loud and self-possessed. “Nats—you and I must talk privately, and soon. This is a very serious business.”

  The only acknowledgment by Nats was a twitch of her slim shoulders. Judith finished fluffing up Claire’s coiffure. At the bar, Alex poured himself another brandy.

  “Maybe,” he said to the room at large, “I should get married, too. There’s Clea—but models are so vain. Dee-Dee is amusing, but a bisexual wife could present problems. Erica’s quite wonderful in every way, except for her husband. What to do, what to do.” Alex continued communing with his brandy snifter.

  Sergeant Daub entered, wearing humility like a badge. “The inspector would like to interview everyone again. It shouldn’t take long, since he doesn’t wish to trouble you, and he’s anxious to go off-duty. He’ll see you in pairs to expedite matters.”

  This time, Judith and Renie were summoned first. Only two desk lamps were turned on in the parlor, evoking the pale glow of rush lights and tapers that must have illumined the room four hundred years earlier. Judith could almost see Sir Lionel Dunk sitting at the big oak desk in his doublet and hose. Or a dress.

  Now seated in the lord of the manor’s place was Claude Wattle. Either because he was tired or because he had settled into the mechanics of the case, the inspector was less contentious than he had been earlier in the day. His attitude toward the cousins was now businesslike, rather than confrontational.

  “You arrived at Ravenscroft House Friday afternoon, I understand. You ’ad not met any of these people until then, except Mrs. Marchmont, who lunched with you in London earlier in the week. Correct?”

  Judith and Renie affirmed the statement. Sergeant Daub wrote assiduously in his notebook. The inspector continued: “Given that you ’ad no prior knowledge of Miss Petulia Ravenscroft, ’ow did ’er manner strike you?”

  Judith fielded the question. “She was a very forceful personality. Stubborn, demanding, critical—but basically kind. She had very high standards, and wouldn’t make allowances for how the world had changed. Deteriorated, she might have said. We’re told she tried to run the lives of her relatives, particularly through the use of money. It was her only weapon, really. Old people lose so many physical powers, which makes them resentful because it means a loss of i
ndependence as well. That would be particularly hard for a proud, willful woman like Aunt Pet who was used to having her own way. Confined as she was, it was only natural for her to resort to money as manipulation.”

  Daub looked as if his hand was cramping, and Wattle wore a dazed expression. The inspector took a deep breath. “I’m asking about ’er state of mind, not the story of ’er life. How did she behave?”

  Judith was embarrassed. “Oh—I’m sorry. Well, she acted the way I’d expect a person such as I just described to act. She was impatient, opinionated, and autocratic.”

  “She was in good spirits,” Renie put in, then gave the inspector a self-deprecating smile. “My husband’s a psychologist, so I know what you’re driving at.” Renie ignored Judith’s baleful look. “Aunt Pet wasn’t nervous or depressed or anxious. I’d have to guess that her behavior was normal—for her. There was no indication that she expected trouble. Bill—that’s my husband—would point out that she talked a lot about family members who had died. He might tell you that didn’t indicate a desire for death on Aunt Pet’s part so much as for—”

  “Thank you very much, Mrs. Jones,” Wattle broke in, wiping his brow with a big handkerchief. “Now wot’s this about Miss Ravenscroft taking the family to task at dinner Friday night?”

  This time, neither cousin answered. Instead, they were exchanging sheepish glances. Finally, Inspector Wattle prompted Judith.

  “Aunt Pet said she was devising a new will.” Judith spoke carefully, trying to be exact. “She mentioned making other wills, but having to revoke them for various reasons. She also warned the family that she knew they were anticipating inheritances, but that she had no intention of dying soon, so they’d have to wait.”

  Wattle nodded slowly. “But maybe they didn’t. Wait, that is. ’Ow did they react?”

  Judith nodded in Renie’s direction, letting her take a turn. Renie, however, shrugged. “Nobody did much of anything. Aunt Pet went up to bed.”

  The inspector absorbed this information, then glanced at what appeared to be some notes on the desk. “No one made threats? Did anybody seem unduly upset or angry?”

  Judith grimaced. “Well…”

  Renie uttered a lame little laugh. “People don’t mean what they say.”

  “Such as?” Wattle leaned forward in his chair.

  Renie wasn’t exactly flustered, but her usually flippant manner had disappeared. “What I mean is, people exaggerate, to work out antagonistic feelings.”

  “And who would these people be?” Wattle inquired.

  Reluctantly, Renie recounted the cousins’ meeting on the stairs with Nats and Alex Saturday afternoon. “They were both angry with Aunt Pet. They didn’t say why. I suppose it had to do with money. She probably refused to give them any.”

  Judith wanted to be helpful. “Nats said something about Aunt Pet trying to run her life. Or all their lives. I forget exactly. But we didn’t hear either of the Karamzins actually threaten Miss Ravenscroft.”

  Wattle nodded again. “And what about Miss Ravenscroft’s other visitor? Not Tinsley—we know about him. I mean the colonel, from The Grange.”

  This time it was Judith who showed signs of unwillingness to tattle, though she didn’t know why. “He wasn’t a regular caller,” she hedged.

  “So I gather,” Wattle said dryly. “Mrs. Marchmont indicated a property line dispute. Did you see Colonel Chelmsford at Ravenscroft House Friday afternoon?”

  “Yes,” Judith replied, “we saw him arrive. And leave. We heard that Aunt Pet wasn’t happy to see him.”

  “Did you ’ear why?” the inspector queried.

  Judith glanced again at Renie. “No,” Judith said, “I don’t think we did. It seems as if the colonel and Aunt Pet were never on very good terms.”

  Wattle once more referred to his notes. At last, he looked up. “You two brought some chocolates as a gift. Now why would that be?”

  Renie bristled. “Fandangos aren’t mere chocolates. They’re truffles, in different flavors—mint, rum, extra dark, white, orange, latte…” Renie was practically salivating as she recited the different types of Fandangos. “Oh, we brought coffee, too. Real coffee, from Moonbeam’s.”

  The inspector was looking skeptical. “The coffee’s unopened. But the—watchacallits?—’ave been consumed. Sergeant Daub found the empty containers in the kitchen. Now wot ’ave you got to say for yourselves?”

  Renie gave off a little shudder. “Once you eat a Fandango, you can’t stop until they’re all gone. That’s no mystery.”

  Noting Wattle’s dissatisfaction, Judith tried to clear the air. “Fandangos aren’t hollow. I don’t think it would be possible to inject any kind of poison into them. They’re solid chocolate, and each one comes individually wrapped in cellophane to ensure its freshness and delicious taste.” To her dismay, Judith’s own mouth was watering.

  The inspector, however, still didn’t appear convinced. “We’ll ’ave someone check out these Durangos. We’ve only got your word for wot they are.” Wattle’s face became a mask of professional neutrality. “Thank you. That will be all for now. Would you please send in Mrs. Tichborne and Mr. ’arwood?”

  Judith and Renie gladly acquiesced. Five minutes later, they were outside, strolling down the path that presumably led to the stables.

  “I couldn’t face the family again,” Judith admitted. “They must be tired of having us around, too.”

  “We’d all better get used to it,” Renie said with a bitter note in her voice. “We’re stuck until they find the killer.”

  “I’ve got confidence in Wattle,” Judith asserted, cautiously descending a dozen stone steps that led through the gardens. Night had fallen, but there was a bright three-quarter moon riding just above a bank of clouds. “I don’t know if he’s got any leads yet, but the number of suspects is pretty limited.”

  Renie emitted a cross between a chuckle and a choking sound. “The only problem is, we happen to be two of them.”

  “But we can eliminate us,” Judith noted as they followed a path that ran between the rose arbors and the sunken garden. The scent of lilacs followed them from the upper terrace. “That leaves the Marchmonts, the Karamzins, and maybe Mrs. Tichborne. Walter Paget has no money motive.”

  “You’re forgetting Dora and Harwood,” Renie pointed out.

  “No, I’m not,” Judith replied as the stable roof appeared before them. “I honestly can’t picture Dora poisoning Aunt Pet. Not Harwood, either. What would be the motive? A small legacy? No, that doesn’t play for me.”

  There were lights on behind the stable windows. “What about Colonel Chelmsford?” Renie asked.

  The cousins had entered the paddock. Judith slowed her step as they approached the stable entrance. “You’re right, we shouldn’t forget him. He’s the only person we know of with a motive other than money.” Some ten feet from the unbolted double doors, she stopped. “I just remembered, coz. Colonel Chelmsford had a package with him when he came calling on Aunt Pet.”

  Renie eyed Judith with curiosity. “He did? Yes, I think you’re right. Oh, my.”

  “It wasn’t very big,” Judith said in a wondering voice. “In fact, it was the size of a box of chocolates.”

  At that moment, the moon disappeared behind the clouds. A horse neighed, a loud, harsh cry that conveyed pain. A side door to the stables was flung open and a figure raced to the far end of the paddock, then fled in the direction of the river.

  Walter Paget’s voice called out from somewhere in the night. Judith couldn’t hear what he said, but his tone was desperate. A shot rang out, ugly and alien on the English spring air.

  Judith and Renie ran for their lives.

  Separated by the formal gardens, the front entrance was nearest to the stables. Judith and Renie pounded on the door, got no immediate reply, and discovered it was unlocked. Panting and gasping, they lurched into the entry hall. Alex was hurrying down the main staircase.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded, looki
ng almost sober. “I thought I heard a shot! Where are those coppers?”

  Distractedly, the cousins recounted their startling adventure by the stables. For once, Alex seemed thoughtful.

  “I should go down there,” he said somewhat dubiously. “But if the police are still here, it’s really their business. That is, it might have actually been a shot. Who do you think you saw running away?”

  But neither Judith nor Renie could be sure. “There wasn’t any moon,” Renie explained. “It had just gone behind a cloud. I couldn’t tell if the figure was a man or a woman. All we saw was a shadowy…form.”

  Alex resumed his pensive attitude. “Well. This probably calls for a drink. Shall we?” He indicated the drawing room.

  Judith didn’t feel right about encouraging Alex’s propensity for alcohol, but she was still shaken. “Okay,” she agreed in a weak voice and a weaker moment. “I could use a scotch.”

  Settling into the drawing room’s plush upholstery, the cousins allowed Alex to serve them. The trio had drinks in hand when an ashen Nats made a staggering entrance.

  “Oh, my God! Get me a drink!” she cried. “I hate guns!” Nats collapsed onto the Louis XV settee.

  Alex jumped in his armchair. “Nats! Did someone shoot at you?”

  But Nats shook her head in a frenzied manner. “No, of course not, you ninny! Walter had to shoot Balthazar. He broke a leg. I’m sick—he was my favorite.” She put her head in her hands and kicked off her shoes.

  Judith sat up on the sofa. “Oh! Then you were the…and Walter fired the…I see.”

  Nats darted a reproachful look at Judith. “No, you don’t see anything. How could you? Have you ever ridden Balthazar? He was magnificent.”

  A commotion had erupted out in the entry hall. Judith recognized Inspector Wattle’s voice, then Charles in response. Nats still held her head, but finally revived when her brother handed her a drink.

  “Blast!” she exclaimed, getting up and spilling some of the beverage on the Aubusson carpet. “I have to make a phone call. I’ll be right back.”