An Old-Fashioned Mystery

by Runa Fairleigh

  “Eleven!” a voice shrieked from out of the shadows next to the fireplace.

  Startled, Violet and Sebastian jumped, then whirled in the direction of the voice. They saw a tall, gaunt woman in a fusty, robe-like black dress that hung to the floor. Her eyes were dark, darting, burning with an unnervingly intense light. Her hair was grey, wiry, and stood out from her head as though she’d had an electric shock. She reminded Sebastian of Charlton Heston as Moses when he returned from the mountain after talking with God. Either that, or the bride of Frankenstein.

  “You forgot me,” the voice cackled again. “They always forget me. Eleven! Eleven!” the woman shrieked, and ran from the room.

  Violet and Sebastian stared at one another, identical expressions of surprise and confusion on their faces.

  Violet was about to speak when the woman reappeared in the doorway. She laughed, an alien, hiccoughing, whining sound.

  “Blood runs red!” she cried.

  She laughed again, then disappeared.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Hmm. someone’s package is not wrapped very tightly,” Sebastian said.

  “Where the hell did she come from?”

  “Apparently she sprang full-blown from the head of the moose.”

  Violet looked at her brother, then groaned. “Must you?”

  Sebastian shrugged helplessly, as though the burdens of a classical education were beyond his control. “More important,” he said, “who the hell was that?”

  “It could only be Mrs. Argus. Cassandra Argus.”

  “And who’s that when she’s not auditioning to be one of the Weird Sisters?”

  “From what I’ve heard, she’s always like that. That’s Mousey’s godmother—her mother’s oldest and best friend. Mrs. Argus was with Mousey’s mother when she drowned. That must’ve been pretty distressing. Then Mousey’s father—who was also an old friend—was killed shortly after, and that apparently pushed her right over the edge. I had no idea that she was going to be here. What could Mousey be thinking of?”

  “Wonderful,” Sebastian said, standing up and moving back to the window. “Just what this party needed—a genuine loony.”

  After a couple of minutes, he announced that two more guests had arrived, and Violet joined him at the window.

  Coming up the sloping path from the dock and boathouse, they saw two figures. The man, who walked with a firm stride, rigidly upright, was wrapped in a heavy leather greatcoat and carried a cane. Even at that distance, his stiff military bearing was as evident as his huge, gleaming white moustache. Next to him, much shorter and rounder, wearing a shabby cloth coat and multicoloured knit cap, a woman struggled with two large and obviously heavy suitcases.

  “Must be the Dijons,” Violet said.

  “The aunt and uncle?”

  “Yes. Colonel Nigel Dijon and Aunt Beatrice.”

  “I wonder what his problem is? Bad back? Gimpy leg?”

  “Somehow I don’t think that’s what it is,” Violet said coldly, through clenched teeth, as she watched the Colonel pick up the pace and move three steps in front of his labouring wife.

  “It looks like a rather good arrangement to me,” Sebastian said, and smiled when Violet turned and glared at him. “I know I would have appreciated a little help coming up that hill. Isn’t that what equality’s all about? After all, Sis, you always bragged about being the stronger one when we were kids.” Violet’s eyes opened wider, and the blue turned a steely colour. “Besides, you know I’ve always been kind of fragile.”

  “Sebastian, the only thing fragile about you is your grasp of reality.”

  “But still—” Sebastian gingerly rubbed his neck and rotated a shoulder.

  “Did you just see that!” Violet said. “She stopped to rest a minute, and that son of a bitch went back and prodded her with his goddamn cane!”

  “He was just encouraging her.”

  Violet made a couple of strangled sounds, then gave up trying to say anything coherent. Being young, attractive, and female, and the founder and head of a not insignificant corporation, Violet often felt that most of her time was spent dealing with leering, condescending, patronizing, porcine, chauvinistic fools. Being also intelligent, tough, and shrewd, she was able to take good advantage of the preconceived notions and blind spots of her male adversaries. Usually they never knew what hit them: they walked into a meeting calling her “honey” and thinking of her as “that cute little blonde”, and staggered out, glad to be holding even the short end of the stick, and wondering if certain of their organs were still intact. Still, for all the satisfaction Violet got from such victories, some attitudes never failed to send her right up the wall; she had a pretty good idea of what she would have done with that cane if the Colonel had tried to poke her with it. But, Violet thought, trying to calm down, she had enough problems of her own without taking on those of someone who probably didn’t want her help in the first place.

  By this time, the Colonel and his lady had disappeared from view on their way to the front of the house. Violet and Sebastian were just able to hear the sounds of arrival coming from the vestibule, followed a few minutes later by the entrance of Colonel and Mrs. Dijon, now minus their coats, hats, and luggage, into the lounge.

  The Colonel took one look at Violet and Sebastian and strode to the other end of the room where he planted himself, cane tucked under one arm like a swagger stick, before the display of weapons. Even in civilian clothes—country squire tweeds—the Colonel’s attitude made it seem as though he was in uniform. His stiffly erect posture testified to a lifetime of stern discipline. Or, perhaps, to an exceedingly tight corset desperately restraining the spread of late-middle-aged flesh. The Colonel’s features were a little coarse and thick, and there was a definite tendency to jowliness above the tight white collar. His most striking characteristics, though, were his bushy moustache and dense mane of white hair, both seeming that much whiter by contrast with a complexion that was the colour and texture of rare roast beef. Clear across the room, Sebastian thought he could almost hear the bubbling of the Colonel’s blood pressure.

  Beatrice Dijon observed her husband’s display of good manners with an expression that indicated she was not exactly surprised by his behaviour, then scurried over to Violet and Sebastian.

  She was a plump, middle-aged woman, somewhat younger than her husband, wearing a very dated bright yellow dress with green and blue blotches on it. She smiled at Violet and Sebastian, but seemed flustered and out of breath.

  “I’m Beatrice Dijon,” she said, “but everyone calls me Budgie.”

  Violet handled the introductions while Sebastian smiled, biting hard on his tongue to keep from laughing. Aunt Beatrice’s nickname seemed to him to be all too appropriate. In that dress, with her large, soft bosom and short, plump legs, her small nose and tiny pursed mouth, and with her bustling movements and determinedly cheerful attitude, she reminded Sebastian of the chirpy but dimwitted little bird with which she shared her name.

  “Please excuse my idiot brother,” Violet said, motioning to a painfully grinning Sebastian. “When you get to know him, you’ll find the discourtesy of his silence is preferable to the discourtesy of his conversation.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.” Budgie smiled at Sebastian, a little uncertainly, then turned back to Violet. “I’m the one who should apologize, dear. You see, this kind of weather affects the Colonel’s wound, and puts him into one of his moods. It’s nothing personal.”

  Budgie sounded a bit tired and annoyed, as though she had made this excuse more than a few times. Her eyes moved in the direction of the Colonel’s back, and her plump little hands formed tight fists, nails digging into her palms. Violet and Sebastian both noticed this and raised their eyebrows at each other.

  “Is this wound the reason he didn’t help with the bags?” Violet said.

  “Mm,” Budgie said vaguely, still staring at her husband.

  “He looks pretty fit to me. Just what kind of wound is it?”


  With an effort, Budgie turned back to Violet and whispered, “Actually, dear, it’s not—”

  She cut herself off as the Colonel cleared his throat, a low, menacing growl.

  Budgie shook her head. “You ask him to do something and he can’t hear a word you say. But if anyone starts talking about him, all of a sudden he’s got hearing like a bat.”

  Once more the Colonel cleared his throat, even more insistently.

  “We’ll talk later, dear.” Budgie smiled, but Violet noticed that her hands were again tightly balled.

  “So you’re Rosa’s aunt?” Violet said quickly.

  “Yes. Viveca—her poor mother—was my youngest sister.” Budgie shook her head. “It was terrible. She was so young, so alive, so happy. And then.…”

  “It was a boating accident, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. Terrible. And I could never understand it, because Viveca and her friend, Cassie, were both such good sailors. They’d won lots of prizes for races.”

  “How did it happen? Rosa never told me.”

  “We never knew for sure. I think the sail or the mast or whatever it’s called swung around and knocked Viveca out of the boat. It must also have knocked her unconscious, because she’d drowned by the time Cassie got to her. What an awful experience! Poor Cassie was never the same. Kept saying she was responsible.”

  “She’s here, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Argus…Cassie.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes. She announced her presence to us just before you arrived.”

  “Oh, no! I don’t understand. What could the child be doing?” Budgie raised a hand to her mouth, and her forehead wrinkled, in either puzzlement or concern.

  Violet, who could not help feeling some sympathy for anyone married to the Colonel, looked at Sebastian for assistance in keeping the conversation moving, but he merely smiled back.

  “You know I was at school with Mousey—I mean Rosa.”

  “You called her Mousey?” Aunt Budgie said. “Isn’t that funny. I used to call her Squeak, because of her high-pitched little voice.”

  “Mousey and Squeak!” Sebastian said, making a face. “I think I’m going to be sick. I can hardly wait to see this pathetic little squeaking mouse of a creature.”

  “Sebastian!” Violet said.

  “You mean she’s not here yet?” Budgie said, and Violet shook her head. “That’s odd. She should have been here. She was so insistent that we all arrive on time. I hope nothing’s wrong.”

  “I’m sure not,” Violet said. “She was probably just delayed a little.”

  “Still, it’s strange. She was always such a prompt, reliable little child—terrified of being late or upsetting anyone.” Budgie smiled. “Why, I can remember the times when she visited us during the holidays, how she’d come down to the table fifteen minutes early and stand waiting, knife and fork held straight up in her little hands. She was such a cute little Squeak.”

  Violet quickly glanced at Sebastian, and jumped in before he could comment. “Why didn’t Mousey stay with you permanently after her parents died? You’re her only relative, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right, dear. And I wish she had. Especially since I never had any children of my own. But.…” Budgie moved her head in the direction of the Colonel.

  “I see.”

  “No, no,” Budgie said quickly. “It wasn’t the Colonel’s fault. We both wanted her, but for some reason poor little Squeak would always get upset when the Colonel was around. It was too bad, because actually the Colonel loves children. Why, I can still see the happy expression he used to get when he bounced little Squeak on his knee, or when she sat on his lap.”

  Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “I can well imagine,” he muttered to himself.

  A low rumble came from the Colonel’s direction, and Budgie, with a nervous flutter, snapped back to the present.

  “What an interesting outfit you have on, dear,” she said to Violet.

  The garment she referred to was a very large, very loose-fitting jumpsuit made of dark green canvas, with lots of zippers, pockets, and pouches at odd angles or in odd places. It was the kind of unusual, unexpected statement that Violet was known for, and that her brisk, slender good looks were able to pull off.

  “Thanks. It’s an original.”

  “I’ll say it is!” Sebastian said. “I keep telling Violet she could be doing maintenance on B-52s.”

  “Now, now. I think it suits her.” Violet smiled. Sebastian sighed heavily and gazed up at the ceiling, and Budgie quickly said to him, “I think your clothes are nice, too, dear. Everything is such a pretty colour. What do you call it?”

  “Ta.” Sebastian held out his arm so the light could play off the sleeve of his silk shirt. “It’s called Dusty Rose.”

  “Pink!” a throaty, phlegmy voice said from behind Sebastian. The Colonel then walked around and joined the small circle. Violet saw Budgie’s soft plump figure tense.

  Budgie attempted introductions, but the Colonel was having none of it. His slightly bulging eyes, the whites of which were bloodshot and seemed nicotine-stained, studied Sebastian with an expression of mounting disbelief.

  “Pink!” he said again to no one in particular. “The man is wearing all pink.”

  “Now, dear.…”

  “I’ve seen some pretty awful things in my time, but I’ve never seen anything like that!”

  The Colonel lowered his brow, squinted, then pushed his face close to Sebastian’s. Sebastian got a whiff of stale cigars, cheap port, and thirty years of whisky. Up close, the Colonel’s nose reminded Sebastian of a large red-skinned potato.

  “Make-up!” the Colonel said. “He’s wearing make-up!”

  “Now, dear.…”

  “Really! It’s just a touch of eye shadow. It’s one of my sister’s products. I believe in loyalty, showing the family flag, stuff like that.”

  “Only because I give you free samples,” Violet said.

  “I didn’t spend three years on the Death Railway to end up in the same room with a man dressed in pink and wearing make-up!”

  “Now, dear.…”

  “What he needs is a damned good beating. Yessir, a really good thrashing. That’s all it would take to straighten him out.”

  “Oh, yes. Please,” Sebastian said politely.

  The Colonel’s face moved two shades closer to maroon. He brandished his cane, the heavy silver lion’s head on the handle seemingly trying to bite Sebastian on the nose.

  Budgie sighed, almost trembling in an effort to maintain control. “I knew this would happen. I shouldn’t have let him look at the weapons. Any display of armaments always over-excites him.” She looked at her watch and sighed again. “And it’s still hours yet before his next Thorazine.”

  “Watch it, old scout,” the Colonel growled. “You know what happens to troopers who tell tales about the C.O.”

  The Colonel was impervious to the look his wife gave him, her hands again in fists, knuckles white. But Violet noticed. And she had the feeling that beneath Budgie’s soft, vague, pleasant, auntly exterior, there was a reserve of tightly coiled strength and determination that would surprise a lot of people—and one in particular—if it ever sprang loose.

  Budgie glared at the Colonel, and the Colonel glared at Sebastian, and Sebastian smiled pleasantly while he whistled a snatch of Mozart, and Violet thought she had better say something right away or poor little Mousey’s party would be ruined before it ever began.

  “Sebastian, why don’t you go and see if you can get us some tea.”

  “Why? I don’t really—”

  “Sebastian!”

  “All right, Sis. All right.” He held up his hands, then started for the door.

  “Wait a second, dear. I’ll go with you,” Budgie said.

  The Colonel stood up even straighter, and hmphed a couple of times. “Remember, old scout…” he started, but Budgie and Sebastian were already out of the room.


  Violet let out a deep breath and her body sagged a little. The atmosphere in the room relaxed, but she still felt uneasy. Ordinarily, she was the most clear-headed, coolly rational of people, not at all susceptible to superstition or flights of neurotic fancy. But just then she was aware of an undercurrent…of something wrong…of a presence she couldn’t quite identify. She had a feeling of.…

  “Death and destruction!” Mrs. Argus shrieked from in front of the weapons’ display, and then ran cackling from the room.

  A small scream escaped Violet’s lips, then several most unladylike phrases.

  “Damned woman,” the Colonel said, eyes bulging, cane quivering. “What she needs is a damned good beating.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Outside the lounge, Sebastian looked down the long hallway at the retreating figure of Mrs. Argus, who had sprung up behind them and nearly knocked them over as she rushed past. He shook his head and made unfriendly noises in his throat.

  Aunt Budgie clucked her tongue several times. “Now, now, dear. You mustn’t let her upset you. She can’t help it, you know. Unlike some people,” she added, her voice acquiring a hard edge. “He’s always doing that. I hope he didn’t bother you.”

  Never bothered by outrage or hostility that he himself had generated, Sebastian airily waved this off.

  “You must be wondering why I put up with it,” Budgie said.

  Actually, Sebastian had been wondering which of the dozen or so doors off the hallway led to the loo, but he smiled politely.

  “Believe me, there are times I wish I didn’t have to. And if I were younger—say, your age, dear—I probably wouldn’t. But what can I do? I have no money of my own. I can’t do anything. The only skill I have is keeping the Colonel more or less pacified, and there’s not a big demand for that, is there? So I guess that’s it.” Budgie sighed wistfully and placed her little hands onto her plump bosom. “But I shouldn’t be telling you all this, dear. It’s no concern of yours.”

  Sebastian, who generally preferred to hear intimate details in the form of rumour or innuendo, and who didn’t understand why a woman he’d known for only five minutes was unburdening her soul to him in the corridor, couldn’t help but agree. “Now, where do you suppose the kitchen is?” he said, taking Budgie by the elbow.