by Mary Daheim
“Have you…?” Nats jerked her head in Charles’s direction.
“Of course not,” Judith answered. “It’s none of our business. But he’ll find out. Eventually.”
Apparently reassured, Nats again headed for the door. Judith called after her, “If you don’t see Alex, look under the dashboard.”
To Judith’s surprise, Nats wasn’t startled. “I always do,” she said, and left the drawing room.
Claire returned almost immediately, looking remarkably composed. “Dinner smells delicious. I was just checking everything with Tichborne. Charles, do you think we should keep her on when we start the bed-and-breakfast?”
Charles looked dubious. “It depends. Don’t you enjoy cooking, m’dear? Occasionally?”
The front door chimes sounded, causing Harwood to leave his post. Claire let out a little squeal.
“Oh! I forgot! I invited Dr. Ramsey and his girlfriend to dinner! He’s been ever so kind.”
Renie, who had gone to the bar to mix her own screwdriver in Harwood’s absence, shot Claire a curious glance. “Dr. Ramsey has a girlfriend?”
Claire giggled. “She’s not a girl, of course. She’s a widow, with grandchildren. But Dr. Ramsey lost his wife last year to leukemia, poor thing. And Mara Radford’s such a nice woman. She works for Arthur. That’s how she and Dr. Ramsey met. Years ago, that is. Arthur and the doctor have shared the building since…Oh, I’ve no idea. Almost forever.” Faintly flustered, Claire also did her own bartending, mixing a second martini.
Dr. Ramsey was wearing what was probably his best suit, a charcoal model that had grown snug. By contrast, Mara Radford’s black wool crepe was far more fashionable than Judith would have expected from a resident of Little Pauncefoot. The rest of Mara was more predictable. She was short, plump, and cheerful. Her silver hair was swept up and held in place with a rhinestone-studded clip. Judith guessed that she was in her mid-fifties, with no pretensions. The warmth Mara exuded made Judith happy to exclude her from the list of suspects. Still, the occasion was intriguing—Judith was able to put a face on another village name.
Evincing what seemed like genuine pleasure, Mara shook hands with the cousins. “The American visitors! You’re the talk of the village!” Her smile revealed very white, even teeth. Suddenly, she sobered. “Along with less pleasant things, of course. Poor Mr. Tinsley is all undone. He went home early today with a headache.”
“My,” Judith remarked as Charles handed Mrs. Radford a glass of white wine, “he and his wife must have a lot of complaints between them. I understand she often suffers from ill health.”
Mrs. Radford sniffed. “She claims to. Mrs. Tinsley claims many things, I’m afraid. It doesn’t do to listen to her. She’s a great one for wanting attention.”
Dr. Ramsey, cradling a hefty scotch, had joined Mara and the cousins. Claire and Charles were at the door, inquiring after Alex, who apparently was being dragged into the house by his sister.
“Now,” the doctor said in a kindly tone, “don’t disparage Lona Tinsley. She helps put food on my table, after all. Every doctor needs at least one patient with a lively imagination.”
Mara Radford gave Dr. Ramsey a sweet little smile. “You’re right, of course. And I should never criticize my employer’s wife. It’s a nasty habit I got into early on when I worked for Mr. Tinsley’s father. Mrs. Tinsley—Mrs. Edward Tinsley, Arthur’s mother—was a real harridan.” Catching Dr. Ramsey’s baleful glance, Mrs. Radford wagged a finger at him. “Now, Lawrence, don’t deny it. Everyone in Little Pauncefoot knew what she was like, with her strict chapel ways. When she came down the High Street, people would hide—including the merchants. She was fierce.”
Having checked on Alex, Charles now joined the group. “Old Mrs. Tinsley?” He chuckled, rather darkly. “I hardly knew her, but she and Aunt Pet had their innings. Quite the character was Mrs. Tinsley. I’m told she kept her husband and her son under her thumb, all right.”
Mrs. Radford nodded, her silver hair shining in the wan light of early evening. “She tried to keep everybody under her thumb. Always giving me orders on the phone—errands and such, that had nothing to do with the job. Lona Tinsley would do the same, but I learned my lesson from Arthur’s mother. Be polite, be tactful, but be firm.” Mara nodded her head twice, her creamy chins jiggling.
Now that Claire had also entered the circle, Judith edged away, trying to catch Renie’s eye. The cousins made contact. On the pretext of freshening their drinks, they moved toward the bar. Harwood eyed them with his usual mixture of deference and disdain.
Renie proffered her half-full glass to the butler. “Touch this up, will you, sweetie?” She gave Harwood a coy look. Harwood almost but not quite curled his lip.
Judith turned away from the butler and kept her voice down. Indeed, she barely moved her lips.
“Walter is Aimee Ravenscroft’s son, by her no-good Beatnik husband. According to Claire, they became revolutionaries in Paris and shipped Walter home when he was eighteen.”
Renie’s eyes widened. “Revolutionaries in Paris? Weren’t they a couple of hundred years too late? Why didn’t somebody tell them Marie Antoinette’s a lot shorter than she used to be?”
“Shut up,” Judith muttered. “You know what I mean, by seventies standards. Anyway, Aimee and Mr. Paget finally O.D.ed—but that was later. Aimee’s twin, Fleur, took Walter in and let him work as a stablehand. Fleur pleaded with Aunt Pet, and finally got her to agree to make Walter the Ravenscroft steward. Now we know why he was putting flowers on Fleur’s grave. His aunt had given him a home—and a job. But Great-Aunt Pet never quite forgave Walter for being Aimee’s son. That must be why he was left out of the will. He certainly felt left out of the family. Walter was so embarrassed by his great-aunt’s attitude that he didn’t want anyone to know he was related. That suited Pet just fine. Claire said her aunt felt he’d been raised improperly, and thus wasn’t worthy of being elevated to true family status. You know, like Dora being illegitimate. The old girl had really fixed ideas about social class.”
“The jewels,” Renie hissed. “Why didn’t Aunt Pet rat on Aimee to her sister-in-law, Genevieve, about the theft?”
Judith gave a slight shrug. “Who knows? Some rivalry between them, maybe. Or Aunt Pet’s need for control. Like Janet Tichborne, Auntie enjoyed her little secrets. They’re a source of power for some people.”
Renie clutched her screwdriver. “Phew!” she gasped, almost inaudibly. “This place is full of them!”
Judith shrugged. “Not really. It’s a village. Everybody everywhere has secrets. But in a small community like this, people are linked to an unusual degree.”
Renie didn’t dispute the point. Instead, she sipped her drink and regarded the Marchmonts and their guests. “So Nats and Walter are cousins,” she said, still speaking very softly.
“Exactly. But Nats didn’t know until Claire told her last night. Aunt Pet didn’t want anyone to find out that she’d given in to Fleur by letting Walter work and live here. Aimee was anathema after she ran off with her Beatnik.”
“No wonder Walter seems self-conscious,” Renie remarked. “He’s been caught between two worlds. Aunt Pet was right about that. His upbringing must have been very strange. Then he suddenly finds himself at Ravenscroft House, smothered with tradition and some very Victorian ideas.”
Judith was about to comment on Walter’s understandable bitterness. But Nats had come back into the room and was heading for the bar.
“I held Alex’s head under water for five minutes. Running water,” she added hastily. “He ought to be able to come down to dinner once he dries out.”
“Try rehab,” Renie muttered. “That’ll dry him out.”
Nats, who was accepting a vodka martini from Harwood, didn’t hear Renie. Judith couldn’t refrain from asking the obvious question: “Does your brother always drink so much?”
Nats grimaced. “No. Oh, he drinks more than is good for him when he’s in a party mood or in some kind of trou
ble. But I’ve never seen him drink so…consistently as he’s done this weekend, which certainly has been no party. I suspect, then, he’s up to his neck in debt—again.”
There was no opportunity for further discussion of Alex’s drinking habits. Harwood had slipped out from behind the bar to ring the dinner gong. On this Monday night after Aunt Pet’s murder, Judith thought it sounded more like a death knell.
As the group began their exit from the drawing room, Judith’s morbid thoughts were interrupted by Mara Radford. She gave Judith a mischievous smile and spoke in a low voice:
“You mustn’t mind me going on about the Mrs. Tinsleys. I’ve been with Arthur and his father before him so long that I feel like family.”
Passing through the hall, Judith also smiled. “I understand. My cousin’s mother worked part-time as a legal secretary for the same man for over forty years.”
Mara nodded. “Exactly. And don’t tell me that people never bring their troubles to work. You hear everything, which is why I’m rather fed up with Lona Tinsley’s poor health.”
Judith laughed as they entered the dining room. “It’s a good thing her first husband was a doctor. She must have saved on office calls.”
The smile disappeared from Mara’s plump face. “She wasn’t married to a doctor.” The small, perfect mouth turned down in disapproval. “If you ask me, she wasn’t married at all.” Mara moved away, taking her place between Charles and Dr. Ramsey.
Judith goggled after Mara. But there was no immediate opportunity to probe further. Dinner conversation centered on children—the Marchmont twins, Mara’s three granddaughters, and the baby that Dr. Ramsey’s son and wife were expecting in a matter of weeks. Judith, who was seated between the doctor and a very depressed Alex, paid minimal attention. She sensed that the diners were carefully avoiding the topic of Aunt Pet’s death. But of course children made for much more pleasant chitchat than murder.
Claire suggested bridge after dinner, but Charles vetoed the idea. Bridge, he seemed to imply, was too frivolous for a house in mourning. Dr. Ramsey stated that it had been a long and tiring day for everyone, so perhaps it was best to make an early evening of it. He and Mrs. Radford took their leave just before nine. Alex had already gone back upstairs. Charles asked Nats to join him in the library. His tone was ominous. Judith watched them head for the main staircase, and wondered if Charles intended to quiz Nats about Doodles Swinford’s reaction.
“Dr. Ramsey was right,” Claire announced, yawning widely. “The past two days seem like a year. I’m exhausted. I’ll head for bed. If you don’t mind.”
The cousins insisted that they didn’t mind in the least. Left alone in the parlor, Judith told Renie about Mara Radford’s comment regarding Lona Tinsley.
“Weird,” Renie said, standing in front of a Gobelin tapestry depicting The Hunt. “Maybe Mara is wrong. Maybe she wanted Arthur for herself. Maybe,” she added quickly, reassessing her suggestion, “I’m nuts. Who’d really want Arthur, the quintessential dry stick?”
“Good point,” Judith replied. She sipped her cognac, letting her gaze wander to the tapestry behind Renie. “I wonder if Nats is telling Charles the truth about Balthazar?”
Renie shrugged. “I don’t see why it matters. They’ll make a mint off the art collection alone. I think Charles panicked.”
Thoughtfully, Judith gazed at Renie. “Yes, I think he did. Isn’t that…interesting?”
“Huh?” Renie didn’t sound as if she thought it was. “Say, you never told me why you knew about what was on that scrap of paper that got stuck in the desk drawer. You said it was last year’s date. Why do you think so?”
“It’s a logical conclusion,” Judith said. “It can’t be this year, because the twenty-seventh isn’t until tomorrow. If Aunt Pet made out a will last April, then maybe it’s from the draft she wrote. The question becomes where’s the rest of it?”
“I don’t see why you assume the date’s off a will,” Renie said. “Why not a letter? Maybe Aunt Pet was writing to George and Emily in Swaziland.”
“Because,” Judith countered, “we know she made a will a year ago. We also know that except for leaving us the gatehouse, it was basically the same as the one that was found in her desk. I imagine she always wrote out everything herself and then had Arthur Tinsley—or Mara Radford—transcribe it.” Judith would have elaborated, but Charles poked his head in the parlor. He looked drawn and lacked his usual bonhomie.
“Oh,” he said in a tired voice. “I saw the light on under the door and wondered who…” He gave a small shrug. “Sorry. I believe I’ll go on up to bed.”
But Judith had a question for Charles. “Say, when was that memorial to the Dunks completed? The new one, that includes what I assume is the Ravenscroft arms.”
Charles looked blank, then tapped his temple. “I remember now. It was restored in time for our wedding. Twelve years ago, come June.”
Renie had wandered away from the tapestry to stand by a seventeenth-century Venetian chair. “What happened to it?” she inquired, leaning on the gilt-edged back.
Charles shrugged. “It was struck by lightning during a severe winter storm. Sir Lionel was knocked right off his perch. For some reason, the original stone base wasn’t the same type that was used in most of the other buildings around here, including Ravenscroft House. A rebel Dunk, with radical ideas, I suppose. Aunt Pet wanted consistency, so they tore up the base and rebuilt it. They also stuck Sir Lionel’s ear back on. Or was it his nose?” Charles frowned, apparently trying to picture the damaged statue.
“It’s very handsome,” Judith said in a noncommittal tone.
Charles harrumphed. “It should be. It cost the world. But for once, Aunt Pet didn’t balk at expense. She never even flinched when she got the bill. I know, I was there at the time. Claire and I were man and wife by then.” He grew wistful, perhaps recalling happier days.
Staring into her cognac, Judith let Renie speak for both of them. “Go ahead, Charles, tuck yourself in. We’re fine. By the way,” she continued, with a meaningful look at Judith, “we don’t intend to keep the gatehouse. We think Walter should have it. All things considered.”
“What things?”
“Family things,” Renie replied calmly. “We came, we saw, we listened. Beatniks, hippies, angry young men and women—we’ve lived through it all.”
Charles flushed. “You know?” he gasped. “I only found out just now from Nats. How…?”
Renie waved a hand. “My cousin has a unique way about her. She meets somebody, and two minutes later they’re spilling their guts. Walter deserves the property. He’s family. We’re not.”
Judith gave Charles a sheepish smile. “Renie’s right. We’ll have everything straightened out before we leave.”
“That’s awfully good of you,” Charles said, almost stammering. “Walter will be grateful. Someday. He can be a stormy petrel, you know.”
“He can be one in the gatehouse,” Renie said. “Good night, Charles.”
With a small wave, Charles left the parlor. As the door closed behind him, Judith sprinted across the room.
“Where are the cops?” she demanded, as if Renie ought to know.
“Gee, coz, how about at the cop shop? Where else would they be?”
Judith shook her head impatiently. “No, they were holding forth in this very room. Now they’ve gone. Have they solved the case, or given up? Is the Yard coming in? Why isn’t somebody on duty, watching this place? Constable Duff, I suppose, making the rounds on his bicycle. Damn! Why does England have to be so law-abiding? Why can’t they be violent, like us?”
Renie drained her glass. “They’re violent enough. They just do it with less noise. How many bodies do you want to rack up on this trip?”
Judith, however, was already out of the parlor, heading for the stairs. “I’m not worried about the body count. Come on, we’re going to the library.”
“What for?” Renie asked, attempting to take two steps at a time to catch up.
“Are we calling your mother again?”
“No,” Judith answered, sprinting across the landing. “We’re calling the police.”
“Whew!” Renie breathed. “That’s better! For a second, I thought we were in trouble!”
Inspector Claude Wattle wasn’t in. The desk sergeant—or at least that was who Judith presumed had answered the phone—was reluctant to pass on a message, especially from an American. Judith relayed her ties to Ravenscroft House. The sergeant succumbed. If the inspector thought it necessary, he’d call back. Judith hung up.
She gritted her teeth. “Dare I call Mother at the island? What if Wattle calls back?”
“He won’t.” Renie was standing by one of the tall bookshelves, fingering a vintage copy of Martin Chuzzlewit. “Besides, your mother never talks very long.”
Resignedly, Judith put through the call to Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince’s island home. They had moved there from the city upon Uncle Vince’s retirement as a taxi driver. Uncle Vince had been a good taxi driver, as long as he stayed awake. Certainly his fares always felt relaxed in his company. At least until the cab began to drift aimlessly through the streets.
Auntie Vance answered in her typical ear-rattling manner: “Hello? Judith? What the hell are you doing, calling from England? You think I don’t know how to take care of a semi-invalid? Hell’s bells, I’ve been married to your uncle for almost forty years! He may not be sick but he sure as hell is nuts!”
Judith—and the rest of the family—were used to Auntie Vance’s critical attitude toward her mate. Indeed, Auntie Vance tended to be critical of everything and everybody.
“I’m checking on Mother,” Judith replied, and immediately realized it was the wrong thing to say. “I mean, I wanted her to know I was thinking about her.”
“You’re thinking? This is news!” cried Auntie Vance in mock surprise. “But it sure as hell isn’t worth the money you’re forking out to tell me over the phone. You could have sent a postcard. Or have you learned to spell yet?”
As ever, Judith tried to take the badgering as it was intended. Except that with Auntie Vance, she was never quite sure what was really intended. “If I could just talk to Mother for a minute…”