by Mary Daheim
Though Vanessa Grover Cogshell’s tongue was as tart as—and saltier than—Gertrude’s, she was much more reasonable. “Okay, I’m taking the phone to the old fart now. Good God, Judith, how do you put up with her? She’s ornery as a goat and dumb as a bag of bricks! If you don’t get home soon, I’m going to row her out in Uncle Vince’s leaky boat and drown her!”
Gertrude’s raspy voice could be heard away from the phone. “Mind your manners, Vanessa. Have I told you lately you’re getting fat as a pig?”
“Shut the hell up, you miserable old…” Auntie Vance’s words became muffled, for which Judith was thankful.
“Hi, Mother,” Judith said, forcing cheer into her voice and rolling her eyes at Renie, who was now sitting on the edge of Charles’s desk. “How do you feel?”
“With my fingers,” Gertrude snapped back. “Now what? Haven’t you got anything better to do than sit around and make expensive phone calls?”
“I’ve been worried,” Judith said calmly. “In fact, I feel guilty, being on vacation while you’re in pain and Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince have to—”
“You ought to feel guilty,” Gertrude broke in. “What else are children for? As far as I’m concerned, you should feel so blasted guilty that it ruins your whole trip. Ha-ha.”
Judith knew, of course, that Gertrude wasn’t really laughing. Unless she was so pleased to have one-upped her sister-in-law Deborah in the Only Daughter’s Guilt-Ridden Stakes.
“Look, Mother,” Judith said, still reining in her annoyance, “I actually can’t keep this phone tied up. How are you doing?”
“As I please,” Gertrude shot back. “At least,” she added, lowering her voice and speaking closer to the mouthpiece, “as much as your Auntie Vance will let me. That woman is a terror. And she has put on weight. Her backside is—”
Now reassured as to her mother’s well-being, Judith decided to break off the call. “I have to go now, Mother. There’s a ruthless murderer on the loose. Ha-ha.”
“Ha-ha? What’s funny about that?” Gertrude retorted. “It wouldn’t be the first time, where you and your dimbulb cousin are concerned. All the same, don’t put any nickels up your nose, kiddo. So long.” To Judith’s chagrin, Gertrude hung up first.
“She seems to be doing well,” Judith said in a bemused voice.
“No kidding,” Renie murmured. “Say, speaking of ruthless murderers, do you think Bill and Joe would have heard about Aunt Pet’s poisoning?”
Anxiously, Judith sat back in the chair, eyeing the phone. “No. They’re off in the Highlands, and probably haven’t seen a newspaper. Certainly not a TV. Gosh, we haven’t seen the news since we got here. I gather Aunt Pet took the papers, but Dora’s probably set fire to them by now.”
Renie considered her cousin’s words. “Yes—you’re right. This hasn’t been a media circus, thank goodness. And if we’re isolated here in Somerset, Bill and Joe are really cut off from the world. Which is good. For all of us.” She leaned on one hand, regarding Judith in a confidential manner. “Now tell me why you’re so anxious to get hold of Inspector Wattle. You know how I hate to be left in the dark.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Judith said with a feeble smile. “It all just came to me while I was talking to Charles. One thing kept popping up from everybody in the last few days. It had to do with what—”
The phone rang then, a soft burring sound. Afraid that someone else in the household might answer, Judith snatched up the receiver. To her relief, Inspector Wattle was at the other end. He didn’t sound pleased about being contacted by the American tourists. Judith sought to placate him.
“I know you’ll think I’m being silly,” she began, hearing a faint click on the line, “but a number of pieces of information have fallen…uh…into my hands. Verbally, for the most part, but along with studying the personalities of the suspects, I think it might be crucial to…” She paused, wondering nervously if someone was listening on an extension. “If you could dig up Sir Lionel Dunk’s monument.”
If Claude Wattle was incredulous, Renie was stupefied. She gaped at Judith. Judith, in turn, blanched at Wattle’s response. He didn’t brook interference. He despised amateur meddling. He couldn’t take seriously suggestions from any laypersons, American visitors in particular.
“I know it sounds goofy,” Judith broke in, “but I’ve had some experience—”
“Experience!” huffed Wattle. “You watch the telly. See ’ere, Mrs. Flynn, we’ve brought in the Yard. They’ve got their experts, topnotch, dealing in evidence and personality. Psychological profiles, we call ’em over ’ere. We may seem backward to you Yanks, but we’re on top of this.”
“I’m sure you are,” Judith said, “and if that’s true, then is it all right if my cousin and I leave Ravenscroft House tomorrow or early Wednesday? We have to meet our—”
Wattle, however, was speaking right over Judith: “—first thing in the morning. We need daylight for a proper job of it. Cutting tools, a stone mason, the works. Wouldn’t want the locals complaining that we’d defaced Dunk, would we?”
“What?” Frowning at Renie, Judith clutched the receiver. “You mean you’re really going to open up the monument after all? How did you know?”
The inspector chortled. “Now, now, Mrs. Flynn, those other North American colonists aren’t the only ones who always get their man. Or woman. I told you, we brought in the Yard. They know what they’re about. Ta-ta for now.”
Hanging up the phone, Judith made a face at Renie. “He’s figured it out, too. Or Scotland Yard has. Oh, well. I said I had faith in the English police, didn’t I?”
Renie nodded. “So why do you look like a plate of warmed-over worms? You should be relieved. We can go meet Bill and Joe. However,” she added ominously, “you go nowhere until you tell me everything.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Judith did just that. Renie evinced shock at first, then began to realize that her cousin’s theory was sound. As ever, it was logical.
“How do you suppose the police figured it out?” Renie asked in semi-wonder.
“The same way I did,” Judith answered promptly. “The clues always pointed to one person and one person only. It was just a matter of hitting on the precise motive.”
The phone rang again, but this time Judith didn’t pick up the receiver. “It can’t be for us,” she said, rising from behind the desk.
But it was. As the cousins left the library, Mrs. Tichborne was hurrying up the stairs. Mr. Tinsley had called Mrs. Flynn. He’d only just gotten the message from Mrs. Tinsley about Judith’s visit.
Judith and Renie returned to the library. Arthur Tinsley apologized profusely for the delay, but said his wife had come down with neuralgia. What sort of “peculiarity” was Mrs. Flynn referring to in the handwritten will?
With a distressed glance at Renie, Judith summoned up her courage. “It’s the gatehouse clause,” she hedged. “We want to sign it over to Walter Paget. Can you make the arrangements?”
A sharp breath of surprise came through the receiver. “Are you quite sure this is what you meant?” the solicitor asked in his most precise voice.
“Mean—or meant?” Judith frowned at Renie.
Arthur didn’t answer directly. Judith could picture him furrowing his brow and fidgeting with his pen, while deliberating on the matter at hand. At last he said that he could meet with the cousins Monday at one o’clock. “Is that satisfactory?”
It wasn’t. Juidth explained that she and Renie wanted to leave on the first morning train.
“Well.” Arthur cleared his throat. “I realize it’s after ten, but would it be possible to meet tonight?”
“Ah…” Judith sounded faintly dismayed. “Aren’t we rushing things?”
The solicitor’s tone warmed slightly. “No, I assure you. It’s a simple matter. If we do it now, it will expedite your departure.” He paused, apparently considering his next words with his usual care. “If you like, I could come to Ravenscroft House within the next
half-hour. Will Mr. Paget be present?”
Judith was forced into an evasion. “I’m not sure where Mr. Paget is. Does he have to be there?”
“No,” Arthur replied. “I merely thought it might be…helpful. Shall I see you around ten-thirty?”
Judith agreed, but added an afterthought: “Meet us at the gatehouse. Just in case Walter is home, okay?”
Arthur was more than willing to accommodate the cousins. Judith and Renie got their jackets, then went downstairs.
“Let’s check on Walter,” Judith suggested. “Just in case.”
Renie looked worried. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? In fact, is any of this a good idea?”
Judith gave Renie a crooked smile. “You’re the one who wanted to surrender the gatehouse. Are you having qualms, coz?”
“Not about that,” Renie replied, obviously still disturbed. But seeing Judith’s face set with purpose, she gave in. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”
For a split second, Judith hesitated. Renie was right to be cautious. It wasn’t wise to act on impulse. Maybe they should put everything off until morning.
Then again, maybe morning would never come.
NINETEEN
A HALF-MOON RODE high above the river as the cousins started for the gatehouse. Clouds, weighted with the damp chill of the sea, were moving in from Devon and Dorset. More rain, Judith thought, but that was typical of capricious April.
There were no lights in the gatehouse. “Maybe Walter’s there, but he’s gone to bed,” Renie suggested.
“Maybe.” But Judith sensed that the house was empty. It conveyed an air of being spurned by its longtime resident, as well as its would-be owners. “Desolate,” Judith murmured, more to herself than to Renie.
A gust of wind made Renie shiver. “Let’s go. Even if he’s there, we don’t want to wake him up. There’s no telling what he’ll do.”
Judith set her mouth in a grim line. “No, not even with good news. Walter may not see things that way, given his state of mind.”
But Judith didn’t head back to the house. Rather, she led Renie down Farriers Lane, past the village green. The trees cast long dark shadows, their trunks groaning, the leaves sighing in the wind. The cousins stopped suddenly as a flashlight played through the shrubbery.
Judith grabbed Renie’s arm. “Who’s that?” she asked, her heart beating faster.
Renie peered into the green. “I can’t tell,” she whispered. “Somebody’s moving around the Dunk memorial.”
“Jeez!” Judith now shuddered. “Let’s go to Tinsley’s office. He’ll have to stop there first to draw up the deed.”
Renie, however, balked. “We said we’d meet him at the gatehouse. Let’s go back. This is creepy.”
Taking several indecisive steps in a semi-circle, Judith kept watching the wavering flashlight. At last it became stationary. Judith edged closer to the green, but the moon disappeared behind a cloud. She could see nothing except the faint amber glow.
Renie nudged Judith. “There’s a car parked at the end of the lane,” she whispered. “I don’t recognize it.”
Judith turned. “Is it the police?”
“No,” Renie replied. “I think I could make out one of those black and white so-called Panda cars.”
The wind had picked up sharply, cutting through the cousins’ light jackets. Renie brushed her hair out of her eyes; Judith pulled her collar up to her chin.
“You’re right,” Judith said finally. “We’ll wait by the gatehouse.”
Judith and Renie had just turned back when another car came down the lane. This time they recognized the gray vehicle as belonging to Arthur Tinsley. He stopped when he saw the cousins, rolling down the window and motioning to them.
Judith and Renie hurried to the car. “Walter doesn’t seem to be around,” Judith explained, still speaking in a whisper. “Shall we go back to Ravenscroft House?”
“No need,” Arthur said. “I haven’t been to the office yet. Come along and we’ll fill out the papers there. It’s grown quite chilly. I’ll make tea.”
Judith didn’t see how they could politely refuse Arthur’s offer. She had dealt the hand herself; she had to play it out. Two minutes later, they were in the waiting room where Mrs. Radford presumably held forth during business hours.
“The tea things are here,” Arthur explained, turning on a desk lamp. “So are the forms. This won’t take but a minute. I can deliver them to Mr. Paget tomorrow. Assuming, of course, that he’ll be in.”
Judith said nothing, but exchanged a quick glance with Renie. Arthur had his back to the cousins as he fiddled with a state-of-the-art tea maker.
“I prefer the old-fashioned method,” Arthur said in a fretful voice, “but Mrs. Radford is all for efficiency. Still, the tea tastes quite good. Is Irish Breakfast satisfactory?”
It was, the cousins assured Arthur. He fiddled some more, apparently not as efficient as his secretary. At last, the tea seemed to be steeping. The solicitor turned to a file cabinet and produced the appropriate documents. Sitting at Mara’s desk, he explained the procedure. Either cousin could fill in the blanks, but both would have to sign.
“Joint ownership, you see.” He gave Judith and Renie a thin smile.
Renie did the honors and signed off. Judith hesitated, reminded herself that she couldn’t miss what she never had, and added her signature, too.
“Well done,” Arthur said, nodding approval. “Most generous. Ah! Our tea is ready. Sugar? Cream? Lemon?”
Renie requested sugar; Judith asked for cream. Arthur produced both, then put a hand to his head. “Oh, my! I almost forgot—do forgive me. Since you’re not citizens of the Crown, there’s one other document you must sign. It has to do with taxes and such. It’s worded in a most complicated manner, but it’s a mere formality. Here.” He slid a piece of paper in front of the cousins. Judith tried to read it, then stopped.
“I need my glasses,” she said, reaching for her purse. Her elbow struck Renie’s arm, knocking the teacup to the floor. The tea spilled, and the china broke into a dozen shards.
“Oh, no!” Judith cried. “I’m sorry! Let me pick up this mess!” She bent down, then suddenly jerked her head up to fix Renie with angry eyes. “You’re such a klutz, Serena! If you ever learned to eat and drink like something other than a pig at a trough, I wouldn’t get involved in these embarrassing situations!”
“Hey! Since when did you ever…” Renie paused, blinked, and grabbed Judith by the collar of her jacket. “I’ve had enough of your big mouth. Apologize, fatso, or we’re taking this outside!”
“Fatso! How dare you!” Judith shrieked. “You make Bugs Bunny look like Elmer Fudd was an orthodonist! Okay, let’s go! I’ll meet you in the High Street.”
Judith and Renie practically fell over each other getting out the door.
“Nice pick-up,” Judith gasped.
“You only call me Serena when you’re seriously mad,” Renie said, between gulps of air. “And I’d never really call you fatso.”
“Right,” Judith said, now panting hard. “Faster, Bugs.”
The cousins were running toward Farriers Lane when they heard footsteps pounding behind them. Judith turned just where the unidentified car was parked at the end of the village green. Arthur Tinsley was waving his arms, calling for them to stop. As he drew closer, Judith saw that he was also waving a gun.
“Don’t do it, Arthur!” Judith called, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. “You’re already in way over your head!”
“Don’t move!” Arthur had assumed a marksman’s stance, which ill-suited him. He reminded Judith of a toy soldier who had been knocked askew by his owner.
But that didn’t mean that his aim would be false. Judith and Renie sidled closer together, standing nervously by the edge of the green. There was no sign of the flashlight now. The wind moaned in the trees and a few drops of heavy rain began to fall. Judith swallowed hard, then spoke in a voice that was supposed to be loud and clea
r, but was neither.
“You’ve already killed two women,” she croaked, leaning on Renie. “Janet Tichborne, twelve years ago, when she rejected your advances. Tomorrow, the police will find her body in the Dunk Monument. Aunt Pet saw it happen from her turret window. She didn’t realize it at the time, but a year ago, when you filled in for Charles as Queen Mary, she remembered the last time you played the part. You knocked out poor Harwood, and took his costume. He was sent to the hospital and you partnered Janet’s Bothwell. Her mother told us how Janet danced with her partner, but Harwood couldn’t dance—he’d been lame since World War II. So someone had taken his place—you. The old lady saw you carry Janet—”
“Enough!” Arthur’s voice cut like a rapier. He lowered the gun slightly, gesturing to his left. “The green,” he said. “Move to the green.”
Holding on to each other, the cousins backpedaled to the walkway which led off Farriers Lane. Arthur was now only ten feet away, gripping the gun with both hands. Judith considered screaming, but there was no one to hear. The shops on the High Street were closed, the almshouses were too far away, and the gatehouse had seemed empty. As for the inhabitants of Ravenscroft House, they were either asleep or too well insulated from any distant noise.
“How did you know?” Arthur Tinsley asked, his voice not only dry, but thick.
Judith summoned up the power to speak. “The new will. Oh, the will was meant to be the motive, to divert suspicion. But nobody knew about it except you. And Aunt Pet. She didn’t make a new draft. It was too difficult with her arthritis. The only part she could write was the short paragraph about us getting the gatehouse. She was going to have you redo the old one, from the previous April. But you took the original draft, with the new amendment, and cut off the date she’d written on top. That made the paper shorter than it should have been. You added last Saturday’s date at the bottom of the page using her pen and ink, and inadvertently kept the pen. We went through the desk and everything was there—except the fountain pen. I realized that when I saw Dr. Ramsey writing in his office. I remembered how you accidentally took Charles’s pen and put it in your pocket. It was a habit, and it betrayed you.” Judith stopped for breath. She also stopped backing up. She and Renie had almost reached the Dunk memorial.