Auntie Mayhem

by Mary Daheim

  “Aunt Pet confronted you with her realization about Janet’s death,” Judith said, now sounding hoarse and tired. “Maybe she mentioned it as early as last April. Maybe she taunted you. Maybe—”

  “She tormented me!” Arthur shouted. “Hints, innuendo, skirting the issue! It amused her, like pulling the strings of a puppet! Finally, during this year’s All Fools Revels, she accused me outright! Imagine! After all these years!” The hands that held the gun shook. Judith flinched and Renie let out a small, stifled cry.

  “You set it all up,” Judith said, barely above a whisper. “You had started bringing her chocolates, to placate her and hope that she’d stop talking about what happened to Janet. But she wouldn’t. In fact, she finally accused you of Janet’s murder. So when you found out that the family would be here while she made a new will, you used the Jimsonweed to poison her chocolates. She claimed to have a keen sense of smell, but that’s dubious. It was Claire who first noticed the smoke last Friday afternoon. Aunt Pet wouldn’t admit to losing any more of her powers.”

  Judith paused, trying to rally her voice. “You couldn’t know when Aunt Pet would eat the fatal dose, but you had the original will from last April. After she was dead, you were in her room, hiding the handwritten version where it could be found and everyone would assume that it was new. The will she made in anger last August was never lost—you burned it in the wastebasket to make it look as if Dora had started another fire. But she swore she didn’t. She may be a pyromaniac, but she’s not a liar. You had to be sure the new will would be valid to provide a motive for the heirs. Only you could have done all those things. That’s why I had to eliminate everybody else as a suspect. You thought your secret would never—”

  “Stop!” Arthur was close to hysteria. Somehow he managed to steady the gun. It was pointed straight at Judith. “I’d hope to make this easier. Mrs. Tichborne told me about the police planning to dig into the Dunk Monument. The fool had listened in on your phone conversation with Inspector Wattle. She had no idea that when she repeated the information, your fate was sealed. If you’d signed that second paper and drunk the tea, everyone would have thought you were overcome with remorse for killing Miss Ravenscroft to get the gatehouse. But no, you had to spoil a tasteful exit! Now I’ll have to shoot you, just like in those miserable American gangster films!”

  Shaking with fear, Judith and Renie held on to each other. They heard a click. And then a shot. Each of them expected to feel terrible pain. But it was Arthur Tinsley who fell to the ground, writhing in agony.

  The cousins collapsed against each other, rocking to and fro. They were oblivious to the rain that was now pelting down, and to the wind that howled among the trees. They were only barely conscious of the two dark figures who rushed past them.

  “Coz!” Judith gasped.

  “Coz!” Renie squeaked.

  “Fuzz,” said a familiar voice.

  One of the two figures started walking back toward Judith and Renie. He shoved a gun in a shoulder holster under his dark canvas jacket. Then he grinned and hurried to Judith.

  It was Joe Flynn.

  The man who was still bending over the fallen solicitor was Bill Jones.

  Both cousins threatened to faint. Instead, they started to laugh and cry at the same time. Renie rushed to her husband’s side, choking on tears and laughter. She fell in his arms just as he stood up and almost toppled both of them.

  “Hi, Bill,” she said, sounding almost normal. “Catch anything?”

  Bill glanced down at the unconscious Arthur Tinsley. “I think so. But so did you.”

  In a relatively quiet corner of the Waverly Bar just off the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, Joe Flynn and Bill Jones were threatening to kill their travel agent.

  “I told you, we never got as far as King’s Cross Station Friday morning,” Joe said, still in wonder. “Paul called me just after you left for Little Pauncefoot and said he’d forgotten to ask how much we were paying for the privilege of fishing in Scotland. I thought he meant our lodgings.”

  “But he didn’t,” Bill put in, shaking his head. “Joe’s brother was referring to the fees that are charged on most Scottish rivers because they run through private property. You wouldn’t believe what they ask. Our whole trip didn’t cost as much as the fee for just four days of fishing.”

  Judith and Renie both looked suitably flabbergasted. In the past twelve hours since leaving Ravenscroft House, they hadn’t yet had the opportunity to hear a coherent version of their husbands’ aborted fishing adventure.

  Joe sipped at his glass of ale. “When the travel agent mentioned—in passing—that we would pay a fee once we got to Scotland, I thought he was talking about a license, like at home. But that was just the beginning of what turned out to be way beyond our means.”

  Judith couldn’t resist a small barb. “I thought Paul had all sorts of influence through his job as a diplomat. Why couldn’t he finagle something for you?”

  Joe’s green eyes rested on his wife’s face. He looked nettled. “He could—if he’d had time. But it would take at least a week, and while Bill and I were sorting everything out and figuring what to do next, Scotland Yard called.”

  Judith and Renie knew this part of the story. One of the divisional commanders had been so impressed with Joe’s ideas about an unsolved disappearance that he’d asked to meet with the American homicide detective. Since Bill had expressed interest in seeing Scotland Yard, Joe had taken him along. During the course of the meeting, Bill had made some suggestions about the psychological makeup of both the possible victim and the putative criminal. Again, the divisional commander had been impressed. He had asked the Americans if they’d like to go to the scene of the alleged crime. When they discovered it had occurred—if indeed it had occurred at all—in Little Pauncefoot, Joe and Bill had quickly backed off. They had no desire to show up where their wives were spending a cozy weekend with the Marchmonts.

  Consequently, they had spent Saturday at Oxford and Sunday at Cambridge. Upon their return to London Monday morning, there was a message for Joe. Strange as it seemed, there had been another incident at Little Pauncefoot. This time there was no doubt about it being a homicide. The Yard was being asked in. While it was highly unlikely that the two cases were connected, would Detective Flynn and Professor Jones care to go down to Somerset?

  Given the fact that their wives might be in mortal danger, Joe and Bill jumped at the chance. They had each tried to call Ravenscroft House from London, but had gotten a busy signal both times. It had been early evening by the time they had been updated by Inspector Wattle at his Yeovil headquarters. Checking into The Old Grey Mare, they had again tried to telephone Judith and Renie. And again, the line had been tied up. After a late—and virtually inedible—dinner at the inn, they had gone off with a flashlight to explore the Dunk Monument, which they knew the police planned to open up in the morning.

  “It’s a good thing you were armed,” Judith said to Joe, recalling the events that had led up to the near-fatal encounter on the green.

  Joe signaled the barkeep for another round. “I insisted on being issued a sidearm. I told the Yard people that for Yanks, a gun in our holsters triggered our brains. Without a piece, we were helpless. They weren’t happy about it, but they gave in after I threatened to buy an antique blunderbuss.”

  Bill was nodding in approval. “That was good shooting. You only winged that lawyer. He’ll be able to stand trial.”

  Renie edged closer to Bill. “And you had him all figured out, never even having met him! I’m so proud!”

  Bill gave a small shrug. “If Janet Tichborne was murdered, but her body was never found, it was probably a man who killed her. The Yard had her background on file. I’ll skip the technical jargon, but basically she used men to prove her worth, no doubt because her father had died so young and she needed masculine approbation. Her tactics were successful with her peer group, but when she came up against an older man—and it turned out that this Tinsley was almost
forty—her tricks backfired. Tinsley had been dominated by his mother. He’d never had much luck with women, and he fell right into Janet’s trap. When she tired of him, he rebelled. Violently.”

  Judith hastened to agree. “Did he ever! He strangled her and carried her off to the unfinished Dunk Monument, where he buried the body. The workmen never noticed, and completed the job a short time later. If they smelled anything strange, they probably thought it was that blasted Jimsonweed. And Aunt Pet watched it all, but wasn’t sure what she’d seen. There was so much horseplay during the festival that she didn’t find it odd that Mary, Queen of Scots, was carrying Lord Bothwell across the green. But then Janet disappeared. So did the costume.”

  One thing had puzzled Renie all along: “Why didn’t Aunt Pet figure it out sooner? She was sharp. It shouldn’t have taken twelve years. Or eleven, if she twigged to it last April.”

  “Her mind was sharp, yes,” Judith agreed. “But remember how she fought getting glasses until the past couple of years? I suspect she hadn’t been sure of what she’d seen. It would be hard to distinguish some of the men’s costumes. And of course Bothwell’s outfit was never seen again by anyone because Janet was wearing it when she died. The fact that Janet disappeared wasn’t suspicious to Aunt Pet. Her own great-niece had run away in her teens. It was only much later, when Janet was never heard from, that people began to suspect foul play. It was well and good for Mrs. Tichborne to say her daughter would never go off without a word. But teenagers do that, and a mother’s protests often are taken with a grain of salt. Then last April, Aunt Pet saw Arthur dressed once again as Queen Mary. She had her glasses by then, and it must have dawned on her what might have happened. She couldn’t know, which was why she threw out hints. Arthur got rattled. He undoubtedly denied everything, but Aunt Pet was shrewd. She could tell from his manner that she was right.”

  Bill was nodding again. “Miss Ravenscroft couldn’t tell the police because she had no proof. Even if they dug up the monument and found the body, it wouldn’t be possible to make a case against Tinsley. An old lady with failing eyesight wouldn’t make a credible witness.”

  Pulling two cigars out of his jacket pocket, Joe offered one to Bill and flicked on a lighter. “What I envy most about the English system is that a confession is admissible as proof of guilt. If we were home, this case would go right out the window.”

  There was a pause as another round of ale and a platter of mixed hors d’oeuvres were delivered. Renie elbowed the others out of the way while she plundered the selections. The bar was busy on this misty early evening in April. The Flynns and the Joneses were seated at a table by an arched window that looked out onto the stalwart gray stone buildings of the old town.

  Boldly, Judith dared to reach for an oyster on the half-shell. “We were meant to believe that the estate was the motive. But the estate has diminished, and it certainly wasn’t in Charles’s interest to kill Aunt Pet. Besides, it was out of character. He panicked after her death, which proved he couldn’t have been the murderer.”

  Bill leaned into the table, lowering his rich voice, “That’s what makes all this so interesting—delving into the personalities. I think I got more out of the murder investigation than the IMNUTS conference.”

  Joe clapped Bill on the shoulder. “Stick with me, William. Back on the job, I can provide you with a new perp every day.”

  “No thanks,” Bill replied, looking somewhat grim. “Once is enough.” He turned to Judith. “How long did Miss Ravenscroft intend to string Tinsley along, I wonder?”

  Judith smiled faintly at Bill. “I have a feeling that once Aunt Pet got the new will out of the way, she would have insisted that Arthur turn himself in. She may have actually thought he’d do it. Honor and all that. Instead, he killed her. His values weren’t Victorian.”

  Bill was sampling two kinds of cheese. “Tinsley’s marriage gave him away, too. Scotland Yard had checked into the background of everyone involved. They discovered that Lona Tinsley hadn’t been married to a doctor, but had worked for one. He was a psychiatrist who Arthur consulted after having a partial breakdown following Janet’s murder. That’s how Arthur and Lona met. She’d had a stillborn baby out of wedlock in her youth. I suspect the experience had made sex unappealing to her. But she wanted the respectability of marriage. Arthur wanted sanctuary, which a wife could give him. The wedding took place less than six months after Janet was killed.”

  Judith was nodding vehemently. “Mara Radford suspected that Lona had never been married before. Mara’s a good judge of human nature.”

  Renie nodded, a sweet pickle poised at her mouth. “Working in a law office will do that for you. My mother’s experiences as a legal secretary have made her wise in the ways of people.”

  Bill wore a dubious expression. “It’s only empirical knowledge,” he said, never willing to concede a point in his mother-in-law’s favor. “But it’s true that Lona Tinsley was obsessed with respectability. If it even became known that she’d had a baby, there had to be a husband. She’d lived a lie for years.”

  “She’d lived dangerously,” Judith noted, “without realizing it. Her husband was also living a lie. Of course they provided each other’s cover, if unwittingly. It’s very sad.” Brightening, Judith stole another oyster, right out from under Renie’s hand. “What a fateful year! So much happened twelve years ago, about the time that Janet disappeared. That’s what kept cropping up with everybody we talked to. Not everything was tied into Janet’s murder, but I sensed it couldn’t all be coincidence.”

  Renie, who had dribbled melted butter down the front of her silk blouse, was shaking her head. “Gosh! What a weekend in the country! I sure hope Walter gets over his sulk about the will now that we’ve given him the gatehouse. Moving into The Old Grey Mare was a bad idea, unless Millie’s given notice. Again. Say,” she went on, turning to Judith, “where was Claire going when she sneaked out of the big house Sunday afternoon?”

  Judith laughed. “It wasn’t to see Walter. She was off to Colonel Chelmsford’s, to find out why he’d called on Aunt Pet. I just assumed she was going to the gatehouse, but she must have walked right past it.”

  Joe and Bill both gazed askance at their wives. “That gatehouse,” Joe began.

  “It’s on a river,” Bill remarked.

  Judith choked on a swallow of ale. “There’s no fish,” she spluttered.

  Renie dropped a sesame wafer in her lap. “Tiddlers. All tiddlers. You know, undersized, small fry, wee baby fish, as they say here in Scotland.”

  Joe and Bill exchanged skeptical glances. “It would have made a terrific pied-a-terre,” said Joe.

  “I’m not so far from retirement,” commented Bill.

  “We’re not far from dinner,” Renie put in, wolfing down the last hors d’oeuvre. “Where are we going?”

  Bill consulted a small piece of paper. “It’s called The Witchery, quote, ‘the most haunted restaurant in town.’” He refolded the paper and put it back in his jacket. “We’re told it has some eerie special effects.”

  The cousins’ faces both fell. “I don’t like scary stuff,” Renie asserted. She jabbed Bill in the ribs. “Hey, you know how I hate horror movies! What a dumb choice for a restaurant!”

  “It sure is,” Judith chimed in, glaring at Joe, who was motioning for their tab. “Why do we have to go someplace creepy? Do you want us to stay awake with nightmares?”

  Joe lifted an eyebrow at Bill. “The worst of it,” he said in a resigned voice, “is that they’re serious.”

  Bill nodded. “I know. But are they crazy?”

  Joe shrugged. “Don’t ask me. You’re the nut guy. I’m just a cop.”

  The cousins ignored their husbands. “Why did we let them choose in the first place?” Renie groused. “We’re the trip planners. Didn’t we just redo the entire final week of our vacation to accommodate them?”

  “Ah…” Judith looked a trifle sly. “In a way…I just hope they like staying at the bed-and-breakfast
in Orkney.”

  Joe turned apoplectic; Bill’s square jaw jutted. “Orkney?” they chorused.

  Judith grew smug. “Very rural, very isolated. Gorgeous scenery, peaceful pastures, rugged coastline. Only a third of the seventy islands are inhabited. There’s fishing, too. It’s free.” Judith tried to keep a straight face.

  “Free?” Joe was incredulous.

  “What kind of fishing?” Bill asked, his expression skeptical.

  Renie started to enumerate on her fingers: “Wild brown trout, salmon, halibut—you name it, they’ve got it.”

  Bill wasn’t convinced. “How can it be free when everyplace in Scotland costs a bundle?”

  “Thank the Norsemen,” Renie said. “There’s some ancient treaty that allows free access to all the Orkney waters. We did our homework.”

  Over the table, Joe and Bill exchanged high fives. Only after they were through shaking their heads in disbelief did they turn back to their wives.

  “Hey,” Joe said, suddenly serious, “what will you two do while we’re fishing? Orkney sounds kind of out-of-the-way in terms of activities.” Inhaling on his cigar, he blew smoke.

  Glancing at Renie, Judith shrugged. “We’ll think of something.”

  Judith could also blow smoke.

  About the Author

  Seattle native Mary Daheim began telling stories with pictures when she was four. Since she could neither read nor write, and her artistic talent was questionable, her narratives were sometimes hard to follow. By second grade, she had learned how to string together both subjects and predicates, and hasn’t stopped writing since. A former newspaper reporter and public relations consultant, Daheim’s first of seven historical romances was published in 1983. In addition to Avon Books’ Bed-and-Breakfast series featuring Judith McMonigle Flynn, Daheim also pens the Alpine mysteries for Ballantine. She is married to David Daheim, a retired college instructor, and has three daughters—Barbara, Katherine and Magdalen.