Auntie Mayhem (18 page)

Trying to put aside the image of Gertrude suffering in a lonely hospital bed, or worse yet, Gertrude haranguing the benighted staff into submission, Judith read through Aunt Pet's Last Will and Testament. Or at least her intended final will.

For apparently this was the document that the police had found in Petulia Ravenscroft's bedroom. Judith assumed they had made copies and left the original with the family. It was indeed Aunt Pet's desire to leave Ravenscroft House to Claire Ravenscroft Marchmont and her spouse, Charles Marchmont. There followed the other bequests, to Natasha and Alexei Karamazin, to the Marchmont twins, to George and Emily Ravenscroft, to the faithful servants, Hobbs, Tichborne, and Harwood. And, at the bottom of the page in an even shakier hand, Aunt Pet had written the fateful words:

“That in gratitude for their friendship and their family's service to God and country, I do hereby devise and bequeath to Judith Grover Flynn and Serena Grover Jones the gatehouse that stands on the same property as…”

Judith sighed. The gesture was appreciated, but in fairness, the gatehouse should have gone to Walter Paget. The steward was definitely omitted from the will. It was impossible not to wonder why. Certainly Walter had served the family faithfully for over ten years, maybe more. Judith glanced at the date below Aunt Pet's florid signature: 24 April. Saturday had been the twenty-fourth of the month. Obviously, this was Aunt Pet's most recent wish for the division of her estate. Judith smoothed the paper with her right hand before replacing it in the drawer.

It was then that she realized there was something not quite right about the paper itself. It was from an ordinary writing tablet, probably the one Judith and Renie had seen in the escritoire. But somehow it looked odd. Judith stared at the sheet, but couldn't figure out why. Maybe she was imagining things. That would be easy to do at two-thirty in
the morning. With a shake of her head, Judith put the will back in the drawer, turned off the desk lamp, and carefully made her way out of the library.

Surprisingly, she went back to sleep. It was almost eight o'clock when she woke up. At the bathroom door, she heard Renie cussing.

“What's wrong, coz?” Judith called.

“Shut the hell up,” Renie shouted back. “I'm flossing. It makes my gums bleed. I'm offering it up to St. Apollonia. She's in charge of teeth.”

Judith leaned against the door. She was always startled by Renie's devotion to various saints and her urge to offer up whatever physical affliction she was suffering at the moment.

“Which saint's in charge of butts?” Judith inquired after a long silence. “Mother fell off the couch and dented hers. I think she's okay, but she's in the hospital.”

“What?” Renie yelled back, then yanked open the door. “Your mother's in the hospital? What happened?”

Judith explained. Renie shuddered. “Oh, great! Now my mother will try to top her. What will she do? Roll her wheelchair down the stairs of her apartment and crush Mrs. Parker and her repulsive poodle, Ignatz?”

“Probably,” Judith replied, scooting past Renie. “I'm going to shower. By the way, I saw the will.”

Renie made a dive for Judith, but missed. Judith closed the bathroom door almost but not quite shut. “No surprises,” Judith said, peering at Renie through the crack. “It's lucid, signed and dated. Ergo, it may hold up in court.” The door clicked into place.

At precisely nine o'clock, Judith and Renie arrived in the dining room for breakfast. Except for Alex, the rest of the family was already seated.

“Millie didn't show up,” Charles announced in a grumble. “She handed in her notice. Mrs. Tichborne is serving under duress.”

“Good,” Renie retorted, piling lamb kidneys and kippers and tomato slices onto her plate. Noting the startled looks on her hosts' faces, she smiled apologetically. “I mean, Mrs. Tichborne knows how to cook. That is, she makes
delicious meals. Not that Millie wasn't just fine and dandy, but…” With a helpless shrug, Renie sat down next to Nats, who was openly sulking.

“I wonder,” Judith said to cover the awkwardness caused by Renie's implied criticism of the Marchmonts' daily help, “if the police have talked to Millie.”

Claire jumped in her chair. “Millie? But why?”

Charles, however, understood the question. “They may have. But Millie hadn't been with us long.” He glanced inquiringly at his wife. “A month? Two, perhaps. She wasn't here during the winter. Prunes did for us at holiday time, eh?”

“Yes, that's so.” Claire dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “Prunella Raikes. Then there was Myra Stodgely. Or was she between Prunes and Millie? I can never keep track—Aunt Pet had a stream of dailies. So difficult to get good help. Auntie was hard to please. Rest her soul.”

Judith, who had dished up eggs, bacon, and toast from the sideboard, mentally scratched Millie from her list of suspects. Not, she knew from unfortunate experience, that you could ever completely dismiss anyone. But from what she knew of Millie, the woman lacked not only motive, but cunning.

“What's going to happen at the inquest?” Judith asked, looking beyond Nats's sullen face.

Charles slathered raspberry jam on his toast. “Couldn't say, really. I suppose Dr. Ramsey will give his statement, as will the police. I doubt that any of us will be called. Except Dora, perhaps.”

Somewhat stiltedly, Claire passed the jampot to Nats, who snatched it away and gave her cousin a venomous look. “Dora shouldn't have to testify,” Claire asserted. “It's too much to ask of her. And whatever could she tell them?”

“How should I know?” Charles snapped. “I don't know what they'll ask.”

Alex breezed into the room, looking only somewhat the worse for wear. “Sorry I'm late. Any kippers left?” He lifted the silver lids in turn. “I say! Kidneys! Tichborne does them to a turn!”

“Of the stomach,” Judith said under her breath with an ironic glance at Renie. The cousins had a longstanding argument over whether grilled lamb kidneys were fit for human consumption. Judith thought not. Renie was even now stuffing half a kidney in her mouth.

Nats seemed to echo Judith's revulsion, but in a more general way. “I'm sick of all of you,” she snarled, speaking for the first time since the cousins had entered the room. Abruptly, Nats stood up and started out of the dining room. “Go to the inquest without me. I'll walk.” She banged the door behind her.

Charles pitched his napkin onto the table. “Dash it all! What's gotten into Nats now?”

Claire was wearing an aggrieved expression. “I told you, Charles, she's upset about Walter. Nats and I had a little talk last night. I informed her that the engagement was impossible.”

Charles's face had grown impassive. “I see,” he said woodenly. “That, of course, explains it. Yes, that's it exactly.” Nodding to himself twice, he relaxed and drank his coffee.

“Explains what?” Claire asked on a note of sudden anxiety.

Charles put down his coffee cup and made as if to rise. “Millie wasn't the only one to give notice this morning. Walter tendered his resignation, too.” Excusing himself, Charles left the dining room.

 

Although they hadn't realized it at the time, Judith and Renie had seen the local library on their walk the previous day. The post-World War II building was across the road from the converted almshouses, and its architecture was so nondescript that the cousins had assumed it was a storage complex or the local telephone exchange.

The inquest was held in a room that was obviously used for civic and fraternal meetings. It looked to Judith like a small lecture hall, with folding chairs, a long table, and an elevated lectern off to one side. The ventilation was poor and the overhead fluorescent lighting lent a sickly pallor to everyone present.

And everyone
was
present, it seemed to Judith. Almost all of Little Pauncefoot was crammed into the meeting room, including the vicar, the woman who ran the tea shop, and the redheaded mother who stood at the back, gently rocking the pram to and fro. However, two people Judith expected to see were missing: Walter Paget and Colonel Chelmsford weren't in the audience.

Judith poked Renie in the ribs. “Can you spot the media types?”

Renie scanned the room. “Two print, one male, one female. No TV. Or radio, unless the old coot in the deerstalker is holding a tape recorder up to his ear.”

Judith regarded the elderly man in the deerstalker. “That's a hearing aid, coz. I wonder why there isn't more coverage? In mystery novels, reporters always descend on the scene of the crime like locusts.”

“You're in a time warp with your mother,” Renie whispered as someone who looked like a magistrate ascended the makeshift dais. “Those books were written fifty years ago, when murder was a novelty. The public's jaded here, just like at home. They'd rather read about cabinet members in a love nest or soccer riots or the royals exposing their private…whatevers.” Renie turned her attention to the front of the room. Judith followed suit, though she tried to keep the family members within her purview. Charles and Claire sat in the second row with Alex right behind them. Across the aisle, Mrs. Tichborne, Harwood, and Dora huddled together, appearing to seek comfort from each other. Or, Judith realized, perhaps it was an illusion caused by Harwood listing this way and that. Nats had distanced herself from the others by sitting at the back of the room, not far from a nervous-looking Arthur Tinsley. Lona was at his side, wearing a suitably solemn expression. Judith wondered if Mrs. Tinsley ever smiled.

The proceedings went just as Charles had predicted. Dr. Ramsey gave his evidence, as did the police medical examiner, Constable Duff, and Inspector Wattle. To Judith's relief, Dora Hobbs was not called to the stand, nor were any of the other members of the Ravenscroft household. After a mere twenty minutes, the inquest was adjourned
with the expected verdict of “willful murder by a person or persons unknown.”

Judith exchanged a bemused glance with Renie. A shocked communal whisper ran through the meeting room. Inspector Wattle was the first one out the door. Caught up in the crowd, the cousins heard snatches of conversation.

“Imagine! Here in Little Pauncefoot!” “Just like the telly, only more real…” “Well, I never! Gave me a turn, it did…” “Murder! Why bother, when the old girl would have bought it before long anyway?”

Why indeed, thought Judith. If she knew
why
, she'd know
who
. But at the moment, she felt as if she knew next to nothing.

O
UTSIDE
,
ON THE
plain concrete walk that led to the road, Judith noticed the inspector in deep conversation with a heavy-jawed man wearing a black mackintosh. Wattle's superior, she mused, or perhaps someone from Scotland Yard. Sergeant Daub stood off to one side, looking deferential. Judith considered approaching him, but was diverted by the woman with the pram.

“Pardon,” she said softly, rolling past the cousins. By chance, one wheel of the pram struck a pebble, derailing mother and child. Judith raced to the rescue.

The young woman let out a squeak of concern, but the chubby redheaded baby was squealing with delight. Judith helped right the pram back onto the walk. The grateful mother thanked her.

“That's okay,” Judith said with a bright smile. “Your baby is adorable. What's his name?”

“Maureen,” the woman replied.

“Oh!” Judith's smile went awry. “Sorry, he…ah…she looks so robust! I always assume that such…
husky
babies are boys. How old is she?”

“Six months.” The young woman was now smiling and cooing at the child. “Thank you again.”

Judith kept pace with the pram, though she was forced to walk on the grass. Renie trailed along behind the woman, looking mildly annoyed. The cloudy sky had brought a soft drizzle to Little Pauncefoot.

“You must be Bridget,” Judith said, holding her breath for the answer.

The pram jerked to a partial stop. “Why, yes! Bridget Horan. How did you know?” The young woman's blue eyes were wide under the wealth of red curls.

Renie's eyes were also wide, just before they rolled up into her head. Doggedly, she kept moving; the exiting mass of villagers were now crowding along the walk, abuzz with excitement over the shocking murder that had disturbed their usually placid little world.

“Janet's mother told me,” Judith said, not daring to look at Renie. “You know—Mrs. Tichborne, the Ravenscroft housekeeper.”

For just a moment, Bridget's entire body seemed to give off a small shudder. Or, Judith thought, trying not to be too fanciful, she'd encountered another pebble.

But when Bridget Horan spoke, her manner was composed. “My, I haven't thought about Janet Tichborne in quite a while! I suppose it's because of the baby. They take so much time and energy.” Bridget's expression was fondly focussed on the gurgling infant.

They had reached the road, but were forced to wait while several vehicles came out of the library car park. “We're staying at Ravenscroft House,” Judith explained. “It's been quite an experience.”

Bridget's plain but pleasant face turned sympathetic. “I should say so! How terrible for you! Are you frightened?”

“Frightened?” The question caught Judith off-guard. She glanced at Renie, who emitted a shiver of mock terror behind Bridget's back. “Well—not really.” Judith grimaced. It was hard to explain the cousins' previous encounters with murder and mayhem to a stranger.

“I see.” Bridget had grown wary. There was a break in the traffic. “Pardon, I must be getting home. Maureen needs to be fed.”

“No, she doesn't,” Renie muttered as Bridget and baby crossed the road. “That kid has enough food stored up for the next six months.” She gave Judith's jacket sleeve a tug. “What was that all about? And how come you knew who she was?”

The cousins began ambling away from the library area. Despite Nats' defection, there hadn't been enough room in the two cars for the cousins. Consequently, they had volunteered to walk the short distance to the inquest.

“I told you—and Bridget. Mrs. Tichborne mentioned that her daughter had a friend named Bridget. She was Irish-Catholic. So many Irish—like Joe—have red hair. How many women in Janet's age bracket of their late twenties have that coloring in a village the size of Little Pauncefoot? If she wasn't Bridget, she'd know who was.” Judith walked purposefully across River Lane.

“Okay,” Renie said reasonably. “So why do we care?”

“I'm not sure we do,” Judith answered candidly. “But I have to wonder why Janet disappeared. What happened to her? Where did she go? Now it turns out that two young women have run away from Ravenscroft House. Is that a coincidence?”

“I doubt it, since Aimee and Janet took off twenty-five years apart,” Renie noted, pausing to gaze at the butcher's offerings of fresh pork, lamb, beef, and chicken. The cousins had entered the High Street, which was unnaturally peopled this Monday morning by the crowd dispersing from the inquest. The drizzle had turned into a full-blown spring shower. Passing the greengrocer, Judith looked across the way to the gabled office building that housed the doctor and the solicitor.

“I wonder if Dr. Ramsey is back in his surgery,” Judith said, more to herself than to Renie. “You got any pains, coz?”

“Only you.” Renie made a face at Judith, but trotted dutifully alongside her cousin. April rain neither daunted nor disturbed the pair of native Pacific Northwesterners; the cousins didn't own an umbrella between them. “Why are we worrying about side issues?” Renie demanded. “Isn't a big estate sufficient motive to bump off Aunt Pet?”

“It isn't the only motive,” Judith replied, pressing the buzzer above the brass plate that read “
Lawrence Ramsey, M.D.
” The common entryway to the law and medical offices was faced by white doors with small mullioned windows. “From what I can tell, nobody knew she'd changed
her will to favor the family and servants. Money notwithstanding, Aunt Pet ran their lives. I wonder if she knew about Nats and Walter Paget.”

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking about Walter and Claire?” Renie asked.

But Judith had no chance to answer. A stout woman wearing a white smock over a blue pantsuit opened the door. The small brass name tag on her smock identified her as
“Eleanor Robbins, Receptionist.”

Judith and Renie went through the ritual of identifying themselves, admitting they had no appointment, but expressing grave doubts about the state of their health.

“It's my ankle,” Judith said.

“It's my neck,” Renie said. Unfortunately, they spoke at the same time.

Eleanor looked dubious. “You're both in pain?”

“It's all this stress at Ravenscroft House,” Judith explained in a beleaguered voice.

“We can't sleep,” Renie put in vaguely, then gave herself a shake. “That's it!
We can't sleep
. We need sleeping pills.” She gave Judith a poke in the arm.

Eleanor Robbins consulted her appointment book. “Since Doctor had to attend the inquest, we didn't book anyone until eleven. I can squeeze you in now if you don't think it would take too long.” She gazed at the cousins as if she figured whatever ailed them could be cured by a couple of swift kicks.

“That sounds terrific,” Renie enthused. “We'll go in together to save time.”

“Actually,” the receptionist began, “I don't think…” She stopped, shrugged, and opened the door behind her desk area. “Dr. Ramsey, the Americans are here to pry about Miss Ravenscroft's death. Can you see them before Mr. Pettigrew comes in for his eleven o'clock?”

The cousins trudged sheepishly into the doctor's office. Obviously, there was no need to go into the examining room. Ramsey eyed them with a hint of amusement.

“You understand that I can't betray any professional confidences?” he remarked, offering them each a solid, worn wooden chair. Ramsey's work space was crowded,
with a jammed roll-top desk, a scuffed leather couch, and glass-fronted bookcases. The rough whitewashed walls were virtually covered with snapshots, mostly of newborn babies and smiling toddlers.

“Oh, yes,” Judith agreed, trying not to feel foolish. “We're in kind of a spot, Doctor. The police don't want us to leave Little Pauncefoot until they find the murderer. I don't suppose you have any idea who might have given Miss Pet those poisoned chocolates?”

All trace of humor fled from Dr. Ramsey's face. “No, I don't. If I had, I would have told Wattle and that sergeant of his. The St. Cloud brand is a common one and, according to the police, all but impossible to trace. They're sold throughout England, though not in Little Pauncefoot. I believe they're available in Great Pauncefoot, however, as well as Yeovil. The only thing I know for certain—and I did tell Inspector Wattle—is that Miss Ravenscroft has been eating chocolates for some time.”

Judith blinked at the doctor. “Meaning…? Oh, I see!” she said as enlightenment dawned. “Whoever gave them to her may have been doing it quite a while. Unless he—or she—knew Pet ate chocolates on a fairly regular basis.”

The doctor nodded. “Frankly, the chocolates didn't do much harm to her digestion, as long as they weren't full of nuts. But if she overindulged—which she vehemently denied—she'd break out in hives. That's how I knew she was sneaking sweets. Last spring, she had quite a spell. I had to prescribe an antihistamine. I also lectured her about eating chocolate in any quantity.”

“But,” Judith inquired, “Miss Ravenscroft didn't say who had given her the chocolates in the first place?”

Dr. Ramsey uttered a small chuckle. “My, no. She wouldn't even admit she'd eaten any. Rather, she insisted one of the dailies had sneaked cocoa powder into her dinner. Miss Ravenscroft was many things, but she wasn't a good liar. Too used to being frank, I suppose.”

While Judith mulled over the doctor's information, Renie posed a question of her own: “What about Dora? Wouldn't she have some idea who was bringing candy to her mistress?”

But Ramsey shook his balding head. “I took her aside and asked at the time. Dora swore she'd never seen any sweets in her mistress's room. And she certainly didn't know who'd brought them. I believe Miss Ravenscroft hid the chocolates in the bottom of her nightstand. It would be hard for Dora to look through that drawer. She and her mistress were rarely out of the room at the same time.”

Judith's head shot up. “But they were the night before the murder. Aunt Pet joined us for cocktails and dinner. Dora stayed upstairs.”

It was Dr. Ramsey's turn to look thoughtful. “That's so. I suppose there were occasions when…But surely you don't think…?” He let the monstrous suggestion trail off.

“Not
that
,” Judith put in hastily. “I'm not accusing Dora of poisoning Aunt Pet. But there were opportunities for the maid to search her mistress's things. And yet,” she added in a puzzled voice, “she didn't. I'm sure of that.”

Both Renie and Dr. Ramsey were now regarding Judith with curiosity. Judith, however, waved a hand. “Sorry, I was just trying to figure out something. Later, maybe. Doctor, how does anybody get hold of hyoscyamine?”

The doctor arched his thick eyebrows. “You mean a layperson? After consulting with the police medical examiner, I understand that the poison was in its raw state. But of course you probably gathered as much from the inquest.”

Judith hadn't. Between the M.E.'s thick Cornish accent and the medical jargon, she and Renie had hardly understood a word of his testimony.

“Where do you find hyoscyamine in its raw state?” Judith asked. “Inspector Wattle mentioned plants.”

“True,” Ramsey replied. “There are several varieties indigenous to this area which produce the poison. In another form, hyoscyamine is quite common commercially. I prescribe it often for bladder infections.”

Judith recalled the inspector's earlier comment about hyoscyamine's useful properties. “So it can be harmless?”

Dr. Ramsey nodded. “Many so-called poisons are not only harmless when properly used, but beneficial. If Miss Ravenscroft had ingested hyoscyamine in a processed form, it might be thought that she'd accidentally overdosed.
But,” he continued gravely, “that wasn't how it happened. Nobody would dream of having the stuff around in its native state.”

“I suppose not,” Judith remarked rather absently. Her brain was concentrating on something the doctor had said earlier: Aunt Pet had developed hives the previous spring…

“…smells dreadful,” the doctor declared, tapping a fountain pen against his desk blotter. “Now if you'll excuse me, Mr. Pettigrew has probably arrived.” Ramsey smiled politely at the cousins.

Even as Eleanor Robbins acknowledged Judith and Renie's departure with a sardonic twitch of her lips, Judith was still frowning in concentration. Mr. Pettigrew, who looked to be about as old as Aunt Pet, hobbled across the waiting room on a cane. The cousins quietly took their leave.

Renie had paused in the entryway. “Hey,” she called after Judith, “are we pestering Arthur Tinsley, too?”

Judith hesitated, then shook her head. “No, not now. What smells?”

Renie sniffed. “Nothing.” She sniffed again. “Oh—that's fish and chips. Hey, want to eat lunch at the pub?”

“Not yet, it's too early.” Judith tugged at Renie's sleeve. “
What smells?
I missed that part.”

Renie's face lighted up. “The hyoscyamine, in its natural state. Or is it the plant itself? Or plants?” Renie became hazy. “I forget. You know me, I was always poor at science. And math.”

The rain had stopped and the sun was out, if briefly. The High was now all but deserted, except for two women and an elderly man who appeared to be doing the morning marketing.

Judith admired the bright geraniums and petunias and pansies in the baskets that swung from the wrought-iron lampposts. “Let's go buy some stamps,” she suggested, nodding at the post office which was directly across the street. “I should write a letter to Mike.”

Renie looked askance. “‘Dear Son: Found a dead body. Under suspicion of premeditated homicide. May be in mortal peril. Having a wonderful time. Love, Mom.' You can't
write Mike a real letter. Besides, you won't have time until we get out of here. You're sleuthing.”