Auntie Mayhem

by Mary Daheim

  Feeling conspicuous sitting in the red sports car, Judith opened the door and put one foot down on the driveway. “How do you mean, Alex? About setting up Charles and Claire?”

  Alex was now draped facefirst over the steering wheel. “Matchmaking…thas what it was…Always Aunt Pet’s way…T’hell w’ love…” He appeared to pass out.

  Judith hoped Alex would feel better after a nap. She got out of the Alfa, heading for the walk with its close-cropped privet hedge. When she reached the front door, it was already open. Lona Tinsley, now attired in a forest-green cashmere sweater and a Black Watch tartan pleated skirt, glared at her guest with unfriendly blue eyes.

  “My husband is resting after his arduous weekend,” she announced in her chilly voice. “If you’d checked with his office, you’d know he’s not accepting any more appointments this afternoon.”

  Judith put on her most pathetic manner. “Oh, dear! I’d so hoped to see him about the will. Now I’ll have to go to the police. But,” she went on, just a trifle slyly, “I’m sure Mr. Tinsley is much too modest to want to be a hero.”

  Mrs. Tinsley’s tight little face couldn’t quite conceal her curiosity. “What sort of hero?”

  Judith wore her most ingenuous expression. “Why, in solving the murder, of course. Oh, I’m a firm believer in the police—my husband is a policeman, after all. But I know how they have to follow procedures. It’s so time-consuming. And meanwhile, the perp—the criminal, I should say—may abscond. That’s why I feel that your husband should share his special insights with someone. If he hasn’t already, I mean.”

  Now Lona Tinsley looked not only curious but perplexed. It was obvious that she felt her husband wouldn’t have known an insight if it fell on his head from a fourth-floor window.

  “Really, I couldn’t say…” In what was no doubt a rare fit of confusion, Lona opened the door all the way and asked Judith to step inside. “Do sit,” she said, indicating the tidy parlor. “I’ll fetch Arthur.”

  Judith sat on a muted plaid sofa. The parlor was so clean and uncluttered that it could have been a showcase at Donner & Blitzen Department Store. The only ornaments were a cut-glass vase filled with spring flowers, a trio of Chinese bowls, a gilt-bronze mantel clock with an ivory face that had no numbers, and a wedding picture in an austere silver frame. Even the fireplace was pristine, with a clean grate and three artistically placed logs.

  Judith took advantage of her hostess’s absence to study the wedding picture. It was, expectedly, of Lona and Arthur. She wore a fitted beige jacket over a matching fluted skirt; he was attired in a dark three-piece suit. Lona’s hair hadn’t changed a bit; Arthur’s had receded quite noticeably. Judith guessed that the photo had been taken some ten years earlier.

  “I’m sorry,” Lona Tinsley said from somewhere behind Judith. “My husband isn’t here. He must have gone for a walk. He often does, when he’s low in his mind.”

  Embarrassed at having been caught staring at the photograph, Judith awkwardly sat back down on the sofa. “He is? Low, I mean. Is that because of Miss Ravenscroft?”

  If Lona Tinsley had noticed Judith’s snooping, she gave no sign. “I suppose,” Lona answered a bit uncertainly. Arranging her pleats carefully, she sat down opposite Judith. “Miss Ravenscroft was a valued client of many years’ standing. But Arthur is also distressed over other things.”

  Having somehow found a chink in Lona’s armor, Judith pressed her advantage. “You mean the murder?”

  “Oh, that!” Lona dismissed murder as if it were the common cold. “No, I’m referring to his responsibilities. Arthur takes his work very seriously.” The chilly visor dropped down again over Lona’s face. “Excuse me, I’m speaking out of turn. If you’d care to give me your information, I’ll pass it on to my husband.”

  Judith, however, was shaking her head sadly. “Responsibilities!” she echoed. “They’re such a burden for conscientious people. The worst of it is when others step in and manage to make a mess of things. Like the missing will,” she added pointedly.

  Lona’s unblemished skin darkened. “How could you guess?” She seemed genuinely astonished. “Why, that’s it! Arthur knows he didn’t lose that earlier will. Someone must have stolen it. But who?”

  “But why?” Judith evinced sympathy. “That’s the real question. The only people who would have benefited by the August will are in Swaziland.”

  Lona nodded vigorously. “That’s precisely what Arthur says. It makes no sense. But it shows Arthur in a poor light. What will people think if word gets out that he can’t keep track of his clients’ important legal documents? Is it any wonder that he’s sick at heart?”

  Judith clucked her tongue. “Village gossip must be cruel. Is Arthur sure he had the original will in his office?”

  Lona’s color, which had started to return to normal, now deepened again. “Not the original. He’d brought that to Miss Ravenscroft on Friday. He left it with her. But he had a copy at the office. That’s gone, too, though I can’t think how anyone could have taken it. He didn’t see any clients on Saturday, except Colonel Chelmsford.”

  Judith successfully concealed her surprise. “The property dispute, I suppose,” she murmured.

  Lona shrugged. “I really couldn’t say.”

  “Who works with your husband?” Judith asked, wondering at the back of her brain why Colonel Chelmsford would consult Arthur Tinsley on a matter that was clearly a conflict of interest for the solicitor.

  “He has a secretary, Mrs. Radford. She’s been with him for years. In fact, she was trained by Arthur’s father. But she didn’t come in on Saturday. There was no need, especially since the colonel didn’t have a scheduled appointment.”

  Judith was about to inquire more deeply into Mrs. Radford’s background when Lona continued: “In fact, Mrs. Radford left at noon Friday. She spent the weekend taking care of her grandchildren in Yeovil.”

  The secretary wouldn’t have known about Aunt Pet’s desire to make a new will. It sounded as if Mrs. Radford was out of the running. Judith had almost hoped that her maiden name was Paget. Or was there another missing link? Judith frowned.

  “Say, Mrs. Tinsley, do you know what Emily Ravenscroft’s name was before she married George?”

  Lona frowned back. “Who?”

  “George Ravenscroft, the missionary. You know, the one in Swaziland.”

  “Oh.” Lona shook her head. “No, I’ve never met them. I don’t believe they spend much time in England. I’ve only lived in these parts since Arthur and I were married eleven years ago.”

  Judith understood that Lona Tinsley still would consider herself a relative newcomer to a village such as Little Pauncefoot. “You’re from…?” Judith prompted, for lack of anything more pertinent to say.

  “London. Well, Tottenham, actually. But I lived in Kensington for some years with my first husband.” Primly, she lowered her gaze until it rested on the plain gold wedding band. “He was a doctor. That’s how I met Arthur.”

  Judith tackled the obvious question at an oblique angle: “I’m married for the second time, too. My first husband died young.”

  Lona’s neatly coiffed head came up. “Oh—so did mine! Isn’t it tragic?”

  “Yes, it is,” Judith replied automatically. No, it isn’t. Not when it gives you a second chance at life. Not whenyour first husband is trying to drink and eat and otherwise abuse himself into the grave and would just as soon take you along with him or send you to the funny farm. But Judith let the expected reaction stand. “Was he ill?” she inquired in a neutral tone.

  Lona nodded. “His heart. He’d had the condition all his life. Such irony—but then he wasn’t a heart specialist.” She gave Judith a tight, wry smile, as if Death had played a terrific joke on the doctor.

  “I see,” Judith said, and while she didn’t, her thoughts were running off in other directions. “Arthur was a patient, I take it.”

  “Yes.” Lona was no longer smiling and had stood up. “It’s getting rather lat
e. If you’d like to tell me whatever it was you came to see Arthur about…” She let the sentence fade away.

  “Oh—sure.” Judith also stood up. “It’s about the handwritten will. Arthur’s seen it, of course, but he may not have noticed that there’s something odd about it. Being a solicitor, he’d probably be able to explain it. It’s possible that the peculiarity might indicate who murdered Miss Ravenscroft.”

  Lona Tinsley was now looking very puzzled. “If Arthur’s seen it, why didn’t he mention this ‘peculiarity’?”

  Judith picked up her handbag and started for the door. “He may not have noticed it. I didn’t either, the first time I saw it. Will you have him call me at Ravenscroft House?”

  “Certainly.” The mask was back in place. If anything, Lona was even more glacial, especially when she looked outside and saw the recumbent form of Alexei Karamzin. “Who is that?” she demanded.

  Judith’s grin was feeble. “My chauffeur. He’s sort of tuckered out.”

  Lona made no comment, except to close the door. Judith hurried to the Alfa, where she gave Alex a sharp shake. He rolled over onto the passenger seat, snoring lustily.

  With a sigh, Judith shoved him out of the way and got behind the wheel. Fortunately, she was used to the stick shift in Joe’s beloved old MG. She was also relieved that she didn’t have to be driven by a drunk. Reminding herself to stay on the left-hand side of the road, she managed the half-mile to the village without incident. Halfway up Farriers Lane, she spotted Renie, who was studying the plantings in the village green’s border.

  “Want a lift?” she called, coming to a full stop.

  “Sure,” Renie replied, moving toward the car. “Where’s Alex?”

  Judith pointed to the bucket seat. “Push him under the dashboard. It’s his turn.”

  Renie did as she was told. With pleasure. The cousins returned to Ravenscroft House.

  SEVENTEEN

  SINCE IT WASN’T raining, Judith had no compunction about leaving Alex in the car. She removed the keys, however, and handed them to Harwood, who was at the door. The butler did not look pleased, but said nothing.

  “Where is everybody?” Judith asked, taking off her jacket.

  Harwood pursed his lips. It was obvious that he didn’t think it proper to confide the whereabouts of family members to virtual strangers. On the other hand, Miss Ravenscroft had remembered them in her will.

  “Mr. Charles is in the library. Mrs. Charles is in her room. Miss Natasha has gone out.” Taking the cousins’ jackets, Harwood also took two unsteady backward steps. “Will that be all?”

  “That’s great,” Judith said cheerfully. “I mean, that’s all. Thanks. Very much.” She gave herself a shake, wishing she were more experienced in dealing with upper-class British servants of the old school. Her only background was Phyliss Rackley, which didn’t count, since she was a fellow American and inclined to take orders only under duress while offering a great deal of criticism in return. As for discretion, Judith’s cleaning woman probably thought it was a disease. One of these days, she’d come down with a life-threatening case of it, too. Phyliss was highly suggestible.

  It was almost five o’clock, which caused Judith to hurry out to the kitchen. Mrs. Tichborne was nowhere to be seen, though judging from the fresh vegetables laid out on the counter, she was in the vicinity.

  “Let’s call Doodles before he leaves the office,” Judith said, going to the phone. “There’s a London directory under the counter. Can you look up his number?”

  “Under Doodles? Probably not.” Renie made a face at Judith. “What’s his real name? I don’t remember—I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting the guy.”

  “Woodley Swinford,” Judith replied a bit impatiently. “He’s the animal insurance agent.”

  “I know that part,” Renie replied, flipping through the pages of the big London phone book. “I just couldn’t remember his real name.”

  But Renie found a listing, in Maida Vale. “It might be his home,” she said. “Maybe he works out of his house.”

  Judith punched in the numbers as Renie read them off. Doodles answered on the second ring. Judith asked her questions; Doodles gave his answers. Judith hung up, a mystified expression on her face.

  “There’s been no claim,” she said, still standing by the phone. “Not from the Marchmonts, not from anybody at Ravenscroft House. I’m baffled.”

  “I’m hungry,” Renie said, grabbing a raw carrot from the counter. “So what?”

  “Let’s go,” Judith said, racing out of the kitchen.

  “Where?” Renie asked, swiping another carrot but following on Judith’s heels.

  “The stables. I want to see if Balthazar is still there. Dead or alive.”

  Retrieving their jackets from the small closet off the entrance hall, the cousins hurried out into the mild early evening air. A cursory glance showed them that Alex was still sleeping in the Alfa. They passed him and continued through the gardens.

  The Ravenscroft stables were a wondrous sight, at least from the standpoint of Judith and Renie, whose nodding acquaintance with American barns was limited to ramshackle cowsheds from which they had occasionally bought cut-’em-yourself Christmas trees. A mug of hot chocolate and a teenager in a Santa hat provided the atmosphere. Thus, they were unprepared for the splendor in which the Ravenscroft hunters lived.

  “Wow!” Judith gasped, amazed at the orderliness and cleanliness of the high-roofed building that housed the bloodstock. “This is like an equine Four Seasons.”

  Chewing on a carrot, Renie also admired the animal luxury. She had a quibble, however: “It still smells like horse…stuff,” she remarked. “Look, their stalls have nameplates, just like corporate executives. Why do I figure these dumb animals are smarter?”

  Before Judith could answer, a rangy lad in his middle teens appeared seemingly out of nowhere. “Wot may I do ye fer?” he inquired, scratching his armpit.

  “Where’s Balthazar?” Judith asked with a slightly startled smile.

  The youth shrugged. “Balthazar be gone. He were at the end.”

  Sure enough, Balthazar’s nameplate remained in place. But the stall was empty. Judith glanced at the other horses, who eyed the cousins with well-bred curiosity. Orion. Circe. Diablo. Columbina. Fricka. Scorpio. The names resonated with romance. Judith smiled tautly as she thanked the stable boy and went back out into the pasture.

  “Well?” Renie inquired, still wrinkling her nose. “Aren’t you going to ask about my library adventure?”

  Judith was chewing on her lower lip. “Oh—right. What did you find out about hyoscyamine?”

  “Little Pauncefoot’s research materials are very limited,” Renie said as they headed back toward the formal gardens. “You’d be appalled. But I found a source book for poisons. Hyoscyamine comes from such plants as henbane, mandrake, nightshade, and thorn apple. The last one is also known as Jimsonweed, and it smells bad. It’s not indigenous to the U.K., but was discovered by English colonists at Jamestown. Hence, the corruption to Jimsonweed. It’s been imported to this country over the years, and because of its showy summer flowers, the English plant it despite the fact that it smells worse than horse stuff.” Renie shot Judith a look of triumph.

  At the bottom of the stone steps that led to the rose arbor, Judith stopped in her tracks. “You mean—those foul plants along the village green are Jimsonweed?”

  Renie gave Judith a quirky smile. “They fit the description in the book. That’s why I was studying them when you drove up in the Alfa. The fruit appears in the fall and contains little black seeds,” she went on, obviously trying to recite from memory. “The whole plant is poisonous but the leaves are the most toxic. If you noticed, there were still some pods lying on the ground.”

  Judith had noticed, vaguely. “So if you knew about Jimsonweed, you could gather the leaves, grind them up, and slip the stuff inside a chocolate.”

  Renie nodded. “But most people probably wouldn’t know it was poiso
n.”

  Slowly, Judith began to ascend the steps. “Maybe.” She turned to look over her shoulder at Renie. “Do you remember what Dr. Ramsey said after Aunt Pet died?”

  “That she was dead?” Renie narrowed her eyes at Judith’s back. “It seemed like the right call at the time.”

  “No, you idiot,” Judith snapped, increasing her pace as they reached level ground. “I mean about Aunt Pet’s symptoms. Dr. Ramsey said he’d treated some kids with similar problems. Maybe he suspects the source, but he can’t be sure because several of those other plants grow around here, especially the varieties of nightshade. What do you bet those kids were playing on the green and ate something off the Jimsonweed? Word would get out in a place like this. Everyone would know the stuff was poison. It would be necessary to warn parents.”

  Renie grew thoughtful. “Yes, just like warning our kids when they were little not to eat seeds or berries that they found in the yard. So much of what grows in an ordinary garden can be lethal. You hear about accidental poisonings every summer.”

  Judith was looking at her watch. “It’s five-thirty. Dr. Ramsey will have gone home. Let’s go see the colonel.”

  “What for?” Renie demanded. “He won’t want to see us.”

  “I’ll think of some reason why he should,” Judith said, then abruptly reversed in front of a rectangular lily pond. “We’ll take the shortcut. Maybe we can avoid the locked gate as well as the dogs.”

  Judith’s shortcut turned out to be more dangerous than she’d envisioned. Having returned to the pasture, the cousins followed the stone wall to the river. Colonel Chelmsford was right about access for his cows: The wall stopped just above the riverbank, which sloped easily on the Ravenscroft side. But the hill grew very sheer on The Grange’s property. Judith and Renie had to create footholds to climb the short distance.