by Mary Daheim
They came out at the rear of the house, which up close showed signs of deterioration. Catching her breath, Judith knocked on the back door.
Colonel Chelmsford was in his shirtsleeves, holding a pipe in one hand and a newspaper in the other. His recognition of the cousins dawned slowly.
“You again,” he muttered as one of the dogs barked from somewhere in the house. “Well?”
“Where’s Balthazar?” Judith asked, forcing urgency into her voice. “We’re told he was brought here last night. Mr. Swinford is furious!”
The colonel’s eyes bulged. “Swinford? Who the devil is Swinford?”
“The insurance agent,” Judith responded, still seemingly disturbed. “He thinks there’s some sort of scam. The police don’t take insurance fraud lightly.”
“Bloody hell!” shouted Colonel Chelmsford over the dog’s persistent bark. He appeared torn between slamming the door in the cousins’ faces and letting them in. Turning almost purple, he finally stood aside. “Come in, come in, no point in standing around half-in, half-out.”
“Thanks,” Judith said, losing some of her bogus steam as she and Renie entered the long, utilitarian hallway. “So where’s the horse?”
Colonel Chelmsford tucked the newspaper under an arm, then pulled on his pipe. It had gone out. He cursed again, but under his breath.
“Balthazar’s not here. I merely kept him overnight. Now what’s this business about insurance fraud?”
Judith nodded sagely. “I figured you shipped him off in that truck this morning. You seemed very anxious to catch up with the livestock haulers.”
“They came early,” the colonel grumbled. “It’d never do for anyone to be on schedule. Usually, they’re late. People today have no sense of time.”
Next to Judith, Renie was running a hand through her short chestnut hair and looking mystified. “Excuse me, I think I missed something. Balthazar is alive and well?”
Judith nodded, then turned her attention back to the colonel. “He’s at another farm, I assume?”
“Of course,” Colonel Chelmsford replied. “Montagues’ place near Compton Bishop. Fine people. Good horse sense. Now tell me what this is in aid of.”
Having gotten the facts out of the colonel, Judith wasn’t sure how to proceed. “It seems as if someone was trying to collect a big insurance policy on Balthazar—as much as fifty thousand pounds. He was supposed to be destroyed, but Natasha Karamzin wouldn’t stand for it. She and Walter Paget went through the motions, but afterward, Nats rode Balthazar over here instead of calling Mr. Swinford, the insurance agent. Since I gather you don’t have the facilities for keeping horses, at least not for long, she asked you to have Balthazar shipped to this other farm. How am I doing?”
“First-rate,” Chelmsford said, amazement evident on his cherry-ripe face. “How did you guess?”
Judith gave a small shrug. “It’s not exactly a guess. We didn’t hear any trucks come to Ravenscroft House last night. Walter loves those hunters, so he wouldn’t do anything as inhumane as shooting one of them. Yet Balthazar isn’t at the stables. If he left, it had to be under his own power. Ergo, the horse couldn’t be dead. Either Natasha or Walter had to ride him somewhere, and the obvious choice was The Grange. You’ve got a barn, and it’s not likely that Charles or Claire would come snooping around here before you could move Balthazar to a permanent spot.”
Renie was looking almost as dumbstruck as the colonel. “You mean that drama we saw last night was a sham? Coz, why didn’t you say so?”
Judith turned a sheepish face to Renie. “Because I didn’t know for sure until we went to the stables just now. Heck, I couldn’t tell one horse from another anyway, unless they’d been put back in their stalls with the nameplates. Which they were, except that Balthazar’s stall was empty and the stable boy verified that the horse was gone. Charles must be wondering why he hasn’t heard from the insurance agent.”
Colonel Chelmsford’s color was returning to its normal ruddy shade. He was pacing the narrow hallway which was littered with old newspapers, empty pails, cardboard boxes, and sacks of dog food.
“Miss Natasha asked a favor,” he said, more to himself than his unexpected guests. “Imagine my surprise! As if the Ravenscrofts ever asked a Chelmsford for anything these past seventy years! But I—we—owed it to them, and she has a pretty way about her when she wheedles. She told me Charles wanted to sell Balthazar, but she wouldn’t have it—he was her favorite. If I could find a home for him nearby, she’d be able to ride him occasionally. Well, why not? I said. Pleased as punch to put one over on Charles and the rest of that ilk. So I kept the horse for the night and had him brought ’round to Montagues’. They were delighted, I can tell you. The animal is a superb specimen.”
Midway through the colonel’s explanation, Judith had derailed. “You owed the Ravenscrofts—for what? Your father’s betrayal of Miss Petulia?”
If Colonel Chelmsford was surprised by the American stranger’s intimate knowledge of village lore, he gave no sign. The colonel wasn’t a curious type by nature.
“Not precisely that, no,” he said slowly, working with tobacco pouch and match to restart his pipe. “It was what came after.” Taking a deep puff, he fixed a surprisingly moist eye on Judith and Renie. “Dora Hobbs, to be exact. The Ravenscrofts took her in. Well, they had to, perhaps, since her mother was Lady Cordelia’s maid. She died in childbirth. But the Ravenscrofts did right by the baby, in their way. True Christians and all that.” The colonel puffed on his pipe, and scanned the ceiling. “Dora was my father’s love-child. She’s my half-sister. Never know it to look at her, but there it is. Life’s a funny business, eh?”
Judith gulped and agreed that it certainly was.
It was after six when the cousins returned to Ravenscroft House via the main road. They had walked slowly, mulling over the information gleaned from Colonel Chelmsford.
Having established Balthazar’s well-being, Judith couldn’t figure out a way to tie in the attempted insurance fraud with Aunt Pet’s murder. If Charles needed money because he had unwittingly helped bankrupt the estate, then it would have been in his best interest to keep Aunt Pet alive as long as possible. Or so Judith reasoned.
Nor did the startling revelation about Dora Hobbs aid in solving the mystery. Indeed, it seemed to Judith that Dora herself didn’t know her father’s identity. The colonel had gone on to explain that he had only found out about his relationship to Dora several weeks after Clarence Chelmsford’s death in February. Clarence had left a letter, written many years earlier, admitting his liaison with the Ravenscroft lady’s maid. He had also expressed remorse for treating Petulia Ravenscroft “like a cad” and asked his son to take her some mementos. Petulia, in turn, had treated the colonel with scorn. She was not of a forgiving nature. Or so it seemed—except that she had obviously kept the items that had belonged to her former suitor.
“I imagine Aunt Pet had a lot to say about Dora living at Ravenscroft House,” Judith remarked as they headed past the gatehouse. “Maybe she felt that if she could never be Clarence’s wife and have a child by him, she’d keep his baby.”
“She kept her in her place,” Renie noted. “Dora wasn’t treated like a daughter, but turned into servant.”
“That would fit Aunt Pet’s way of looking at things,” Judith said, half-hearing the song of a treecreeper as it climbed up the trunk of an oak, searching for insects. “She’d provide a home for Dora, but she wouldn’t raise her to the same social plane.”
Approaching the rear of the house, Judith and Renie were admitted by a frazzled Mrs. Tichborne. “All these meals!” she complained, hurrying back into the kitchen. “The family must hire more help. I can’t be expected to cook constantly.”
The cousins offered to pitch in, but the housekeeper had her pride: “Never let it be said that Hester Tichborne doesn’t give satisfaction. Besides, I’ve got things under control. We’ll eat at seven-thirty.”
“Won’t your duties ease up when
the Marchmonts and the Karamzins return to London after the funeral?” Judith inquired.
Cutting chicken with a cleaver, Mrs. Tichborne gave Judith a patronizing look. “Who can say? The funeral is Thursday. Then Friday, the art appraisers are coming in. Saturday is the livestock auctioneer. Come Sunday, they’ll probably have the vicar hold a jumble sale. Then they can set up their bed-and-basket or whatever they call it. Neon signs, no doubt, and a name like ‘California Suite.’” Mrs. Tichborne was still grumbling as she turned the heat on under a large sautee pan.
Despite Renie’s obvious anxiety to get out of the kitchen and into clothes suitable for eating, Judith lingered. “Things are moving pretty fast, I guess. They’re selling some of the paintings?”
The housekeeper dripped oil into the pan. “Mr. Charles is trying to circumvent Miss Petulia’s stipulations about keeping everything intact. We’ll soon see if that’s possible. If not, there won’t be tuppence left for anyone.”
Now Judith began to feel a sense of guilt about the gatehouse. “Where’s Walter?” she asked suddenly.
Mrs. Tichborne shrugged. “Who knows? I thought he’d stay for the funeral. But then again, why should he?”
It was not a question that Judith could or was expected to answer. But on a whim, she had one of her own for the housekeeper: “Say, who dressed up as Mary, Queen of Scots, this year?”
Mrs. Tichborne’s expression became pained. No doubt unpleasant memories were stirring somewhere under that tightly drawn coiffure. “Mr. Karamzin,” she said at last. “His sister was Lord Darnley.”
“And before that?” Judith pressed on.
“Mr. Tinsley,” the housekeeper replied promptly. “He filled in for Mr. Charles, who always wanted to be a queen. Once he and Miss Claire married, Queen Mary was always his role. But last year, he and Mrs. Marchmont were in Greece. The only reason he did Lord Burleigh this year was because he’d put on too much weight to get into Mary’s dress.”
Judith took a deep breath. “And before that?”
Mrs. Tichborne looked away. “Mary was somebody different every year, I think. Mr. Tinsley, Dr. Ramsey, even Colonel Chelmsford, though he looked ridiculous. But he was thinner then.”
“So the year that Janet…left,” Judith said doggedly, “it was who?”
“Harwood,” the housekeeper replied through tight lips. “Ordinarily, he wouldn’t participate, but Walter Paget got himself thrown and was laid up for almost a week. Harwood took his place, and wouldn’t you know, he tripped over Mary’s petticoats and concussed himself. Walter came out of the hospital in Great Pauncefoot just as they were taking Harwood in. Harwood swore it was a judgment on him for behaving in such an unnatural and ungodly fashion.”
Trying not to think too long on the butler dressed as the graceful, ephemeral Mary Stuart, Judith asked a final question:
“So the Queen’s costume is stored here at Ravenscroft House?”
Mrs. Tichborne nodded. “Darnley’s, too. And Burleigh’s and Essex’s and Raleigh’s and the Four Marys’ and—”
“Queen Elizabeth,” Renie put in. “Who played her?”
Once again, Mrs. Tichborne gazed at the cousins. Now a small, pinched smile played around her thin lips. “Miss Ravenscroft, who else? Oh, these last years she never left her room, but she’d sit there in the turret window wearing Good Queen Bess’s costume, wig, crown, and all. The villagers would wave and bow and scrape as if she were indeed the royal monarch. I do think the old lady enjoyed herself ever so much. Playing the Queen suited her.”
“I imagine,” Judith murmured, her thoughts flying in several directions. Leaving the housekeeper to her duties, the cousins went upstairs to change. Fifteen minutes later, they were in the drawing room where Harwood was serving drinks to Claire and Charles.
After requesting scotch, Judith realized that her attitude toward Charles had changed in the past hour. No longer did she see him as merely an ambitious, semi-comic figure, but a blunderer who would stoop to chicanery to cover his tracks. But Judith was used to dealing with all sorts of people, including those of whom she didn’t approve. Her polite manner was only slightly strained.
“I’m sorry we won’t be here for the funeral,” Judith said, sitting down between the Marchmonts. “My cousin and I really must leave Wednesday morning.”
“Nonsense,” Charles snapped. “The police won’t allow it. You’ll stay until they say otherwise. As will we all,” he added in annoyance.
“What about Walter?” Judith asked, with a discreet glance at Claire.
Charles snorted. “What about him? He can give notice, move out, vilify the family name—it doesn’t matter. He’s still required to remain in Little Pauncefoot. If you ask me, he probably poisoned Aunt Pet. It’d be just like him to bring the old girl sweets.”
Showing an uncustomary spark of anger, Claire bridled. “It would not. Walter doesn’t grovel. He would never have tried to influence Aunt Pet through…bribery.”
“Bah!” Charles shot back. “Of course he would! Paget knew which side his bread was buttered on. Didn’t he try to marry Nats? Fortune-hunting, that’s what your Mr. Paget was doing. It’s a good thing you warned Nats off. A man shouldn’t marry above him. In my opinion, it never works. Might as well marry a Chinawoman or a Mormon.”
Claire flew out from her seat, startling Judith. “Charles! What a thing to say! You married me!” Her cheeks showed two spots of bright pink.
Charles regarded his wife with mild curiosity. “Yes? So I did. But that was…different.” He had the grace to turn away.
Setting down her drink, Claire put a hand over her face and fled the drawing room. Judith and Renie exchanged questioning glances; Judith followed Claire into the hall.
To her credit, Claire was getting the upper hand on her tears. “Charles can be so beastly! There was a time when he considered me a feather in his cap!”
Judith gave Claire a consoling pat. “There’s no class so conscious of itself as the middle class. Even in America. Everybody claims to be part of it. Which isn’t right, since then there’d be no other classes at all.”
Claire’s mouth wrenched itself into a pathetic smile. “It’s not quite the same over here. People still have…aspirations. At least in my husband’s peer group.”
Judith started to make a remark, but Claire wasn’t finished. “Aunt Pet took a fancy to Charles. He was young, eager, hardworking. After she turned over the family’s financial management to him, she decided it would be wonderful if we married. I was barely twenty-three. I was terribly unsophisticated. Growing up in Swaziland doesn’t offer much opportunity. To gain social graces, that is. By the time I came to England to go to school, I was at that awkward age. Only much more so than other adolescent girls. I never got over it. Not really. And Charles was ten years older. He worked in The City. He had Auntie’s blessing. I mistook age for savoir-faire. At least he wasn’t scampering about in a loincloth, shooting blowdarts at strangers. So I let Auntie talk me into marrying him. Sometimes it’s seemed more like a merger than a marriage.”
Judith nodded sympathetically. “I had a feeling that maybe it wasn’t a passionate love affair. Alex hinted as much.” She lowered her voice and gave Claire another reassuring pat. “It’s understandable that you would seek…comfort…elsewhere. Walter Paget is very attractive.”
“Walter?” Claire’s face was faintly incredulous. “Yes, I suppose he is. In his way. Oh!” The color reappeared in Claire’s cheeks. “You think I…that Walter…Oh!” She began to laugh, a sound bordering on hysteria.
Judith stepped back. “No?” she said in an embarrassed voice. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to jump to—”
Claire’s laughter was reduced to a giggle. This time, she patted Judith. “Infidelity is a terrible thing. I’d never dream of it, and Charles is a good man. In his way. But he is a trifle weak.”
Fleetingly, Judith wondered if Claire had guessed her husband’s desperate plan to recoup the family’s financial losses. Judith�
�s own reaction to Charles might be harsh: How many bill collectors had she hoodwinked, evaded, and paid with rubber checks during her marriage to Dan McMonigle? It wasn’t fair to judge a person under extreme pressure.
But Claire wasn’t talking about money. “He doesn’t know. Yet,” she said, and Judith wondered what she had missed.
“He doesn’t?” she repeated, feeling foolish.
Claire shook her head. “Maybe it doesn’t matter now that Auntie is dead. I never felt that it did, not even at the time. But Auntie had such definite ideas.”
“Certainly,” Judith said, still at sea. “It’s always best to be…ah…candid.”
Claire’s nod was enthusiastic. “Exactly. That’s what I felt when I spoke to Nats last night. It was all so stupid. Nats wanting to marry Walter. How could she, when they were cousins? But of course she didn’t know, because Auntie wouldn’t tell her. Why the shame? It wasn’t Walter’s fault that he was Aunt Aimee’s son.”
EIGHTEEN
JUDITH ASKED HARWOOD for a second scotch. It was, after all, at least twenty minutes until dinner. She was strangling on the latest family scandal, wishing she could get Renie alone. But Renie was deep in conversation with Charles, presumably about the proposed art sale.
Claire hadn’t returned directly to the drawing room. Nats arrived, however, still looking sullen. She ignored Charles, and asked Judith if she knew of Alex’s whereabouts.
Judith slapped a hand to her head. “He’s out in the car,” she blurted. “Or at least he was about an hour ago when we went over to The Grange. We came in the other way, so you didn’t see him. Is it raining yet?”
Nats started for the door, then turned back to Judith. “You went to The Grange? Whatever for?” She had lowered her voice, and was watching Charles surreptitiously.
Judith saw no reason to lie. “Balthazar,” she whispered. “We just wanted to make sure he was okay.”
The color drained from Nats’s face. Again, she glanced at Charles, but he was engrossed in talking to Renie.