Auntie Mayhem (22 page)

Judith stared. “Short?”

“Right. It's off a standard eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-and-three-quarter tablet used in the U.K. But this is only about ten and a half inches long.” Renie noted Judith's uncertainty. “Hey, don't argue—visuals are my life. I'm a graphic designer, remember? Find a ruler, measure it. You'll see. Part of the page must have been cut off.” Renie, who wasn't wearing her glasses and was farsighted, held the sheet at arm's length. “See? It's too smooth to have been torn, so it must have been cut.”

Renie was right. Judith held the page up to her nose and saw the merest waver at the top, probably made by scissors. “Why would anybody cut this off? It starts out with ‘The Last Will and Testament of Petulia Henrietta Victoria Ravenscroft'—which is perfectly logical. What else could it say?”

Renie considered. “Maybe she made a mistake, cut it off, and started over.”

Judith disagreed. “Aunt Pet would have torn it up and used a fresh sheet. She might have been an advocate of the ‘waste not, want not' school, but this paper is cheap. The date is at the bottom. So is the part about leaving us the gatehouse.”

For some moments, the only sound in the library came from the ticking of the mahogany long-case clock. Renie pulled the sheet back in front of her, scrutinizing the date. “It's dated 24 April of this year, which would be right. But are the codicil and date written in the same ink as the main part of the will?”

It was Judith's turn to study the single sheet again. “Ink variations notwithstanding, it's definitely her handwriting throughout. The date's another matter. There aren't any numbers in the will itself to make a comparison.”

“Maybe she switched pens,” Renie suggested. “Or even bottles of ink. Let's say she wrote out the part about the family, just like it was in the earlier will. Maybe she did that Saturday morning or even Friday after Arthur Tinsley left. Then we came along, and were so filled with good English breeding despite our half-assed superficial American ways, that she wrote the gatehouse section later.”

Judith's nod came slowly. “That's very possible.” She hesitated, feeling she had missed something.

But Renie had moved on: “What else is in that desk? Have you looked?”

Judith had, in a cursory manner. “I found the will sitting right on top in one of the drawers. The rest seems to be household ledgers, old bills, and a bunch of stuff pertaining to the All Fools Revels. Apparently Aunt Pet kept her personal papers in her room. I suppose Charles and Claire keep theirs at their London flat.”

Renie gave a short nod of agreement. Judith let her eyes roam the tall bookshelves, drawing a modicum of comfort from being surrounded by great works in a worthy setting.

“Aunt Pet,” Judith said, seemingly from out of nowhere. “The old photo in her nightstand—I'll bet it was Clarence Chelmsford. He looked familiar because he resembled his son, Chummy.”

“Brilliant.” Renie's tone was wry. “So what?”

Judith made a self-deprecating gesture. “I was trying to add some detail to the big picture. The colonel brought that photo of his father, which must have been taken about the time of the ill-fated romance.”

“Coz—we're getting nowhere. I thought you were going to make notes.” Renie slung one pants-clad leg over the arm of the oak chair.

Judith blinked. “It's not a painting, it's a tapestry. Just like the ones that are hung on these walls.” She waved a hand at the falconry scenes flanking the library door. “Each thread is separate, but when they're woven together, they create a—”

“—bunch of bull,” Renie interrupted. “So what if we've got two different young women in two different generations taking a hike out of Little Pauncefoot? Who cares if Aunt Pet pined away for Clarence Chelmsford? I love history, but at the moment, I don't want to go back beyond last Friday. Who knew Aunt Pet had already made out that will and that it would stand up in court? The only person who comes to mind is Arthur Tinsley, and he doesn't have a motive.”

Having had Renie take the wind out of her sails, Judith
was drooping behind the desk. “True. It's just that I'm fascinated by little scraps of people's lives, and I always feel as if…Ah!” Judith sat up and snapped her fingers. “That scrap of paper you found in Aunt Pet's desk—what did it say?”

Briefly, Renie looked confused. “I don't remember…oh! It was a date.” She started to shrug, then gawked at Judith. “It was in April, like the twenty-ninth. No, it was the twenty-seventh.”

Judith beamed at Renie. “What year?”

Renie concentrated again. “There was no year. It was just the month and day. The year part had gotten torn off in the drawer, maybe.”

Judith sprang out of the chair. “Let's go see if we can find it. By the way, did you say ‘torn' or ‘cut'?”

Renie was hurrying after Judith, racing out of the library and up the main staircase to Aunt Pet's third floor suite. “I said ‘torn.' But come to think of it, the scrap could have been cut.”

“Exactly,” Judith agreed as they reached the top of the stairs and knocked on the door to Aunt Pet's rooms. “Now let's see if we can—Hi, Dora,” she said as the maid opened the door. “Do I smell smoke?”

Flustered, Dora backed into the sitting room. “No, certainly not. Well, a
teensy
bit, perhaps. It's no cause for concern.” Her cheeks were very pink, and she stopped short of the door to her mistress's boudoir. “
Really
. I'll see to it.” With surprising agility, she whirled around, entered the bedroom, and slammed the door in the cousins' faces.

Dora hadn't thrown the latch. Judith and Renie stormed into the room. Dora was pouring a glass of water into the wastebasket. She looked up, an embarrassed expression on her wrinkled face.

“I miss her so,” she said, as if that explained everything. Maybe, Judith thought, it did. Dora started to cry. Judith put an arm around her shaking shoulders.

“You see,” Dora went on, trying to stifle her tears, “I had no family of my own. Miss Ravenscroft was like a mother to me. And she lived ever so long. While she was alive, I was
safe
. Now she's gone, and there's nothing that
stands between me and…” The quavery voice faded as Dora buried her head in Judith's breast.

Judith patted her gently. “I know. The very elderly are our barricade against mortality.” Fleetingly, she thought of Gertrude, facing off with Auntie Vance. The two old women danced through her mind, dueling with cribbage boards and soup ladles. As long as they could carry on the good fight, Judith was safe. Of course it was an illusion, but there was comfort in it, all the same.

“Sludge,” Renie said in a disgusted voice. “There's nothing in this wastebasket now but sludge.”

Over the top of Dora's head, Judith eyed the still smoking burned-out mess. “Was that emptied today, Dora?”

“What?” The maid had stopped crying. With an unsteady step, she drew away. “Oh! No, Millie would have done, but she gave notice.”

Judith nodded once, then fixed Dora with a kindly, if probing, eye. “Dora, did you set a fire in there over the weekend?”

Dora was aghast. “Oh, never! That is, not until now! I wouldn't burn anything of Miss Ravenscroft's! But she's gone, so it doesn't belong to her anymore, does it?”

Judith's expression grew puzzled. Her gaze followed Renie, who was on her hands and knees, and had pulled out a desk drawer.

“If there's any more of that paper scrap here, I can't dig it out,” she announced. “I've already wrecked two fingernails.”

“It doesn't matter,” Judith said in a vague tone. “I think I know what it said.”

Renie stood up. “You do? Have you replaced logic with psychic powers?”

Judith gave Renie a crooked smile. “Maybe. The rest of the paper gave the rest of the date—which was last year. What else? It couldn't be this year. The twenty-seventh is tomorrow. Aunt Pet couldn't have written that—she died on the twenty-fifth.”

Dora began to cry. Again.

 

Arthur Tinsley had gone home early, according to the small sign on his office door.

“I'm not walking to Mon Repos again,” Renie declared, looking as if she were taking a solemn oath.

Judith started to argue, but stopped. “We won't have to,” she said, waving frantically. “Alex! Yoo-hoo!”

The red Alfa was purring down the High Street. Alex swerved to the curb, almost hitting a planter of petunias. Judith asked for a ride. Alex asked her where to. Judith told him. Renie took one look at her previous perch under the dashboard and shook her head.

“Forget it. I'm not going.” She leaned against a lamppost and crossed her arms in a defiant manner.

Judith knew better than to plead. Besides, she didn't blame Renie. “Okay,” she agreed, leaving the curb to whisper in Renie's ear. “But go to the library. Look up hyoscyamine. I'll meet you back at the house in half an hour.”

With ill grace, Renie gave in. Judith slid into the Alfa and gave her driver a smile. “We're trying to do something about the will,” she said as Alex turned onto the main road. “We'd like to get this gatehouse situation squared away.”

Alex showed little interest in the cousins' problems. “I won't be thirty for over a year. What shall I do meanwhile? I'm not as keen as Nats on getting married.”

It occurred to Judith that Alex was unusually subdued. He was also sober. Or so she thought, until he turned to look straight at her. The black eyes were definitely glassy. Involuntarily, Judith reached for the wheel.

“Careful, Alex,” she said nervously. “Here's the bridge.”

Alex responded like a robot, scarcely looking at the road, but somehow managing to avert disaster. “Nats will find someone now that Paget's out of the running. She'll do well enough.” Alex was growing downright morose.

They passed into the vale with its farms and orchards. Judith was on edge, poised to make another grab for the wheel or to hit the brake. She wondered if he was in a suicidal mood. Making an effort, Judith tried to cheer Alex.

“You'll have the interest to live on until you're thirty,”
she said, gritting her teeth as Alex swerved over the imaginary center line.

Alex scoffed. “It's next to nothing! Damn Charles anyhow!” Pressing down on the accelerator, he drove so fast that Judith had to yell at him to slow down or they'd roar right by the Tinsley house.

“What's wrong?” she asked, relieved to be turning into the drive of Mon Repos. “Are the family finances in trouble?”

Braking to a stop, Alex cradled the wheel and sighed heavily. “It's a disaster. We got the bad news this afternoon. Charles has bungled everything. He's no businessman, if you ask me! I used to think Aunt Pet put him in charge and then set him an' Claire up. Now I wonner.” Alex's words were growing slurred. “Was't t'other way 'round?”

Feeling conspicuous sitting in the red sports car, Judith opened the door and put one foot down on the driveway. “How do you mean, Alex? About setting up Charles and Claire?”

Alex was now draped facefirst over the steering wheel. “Matchmaking…thas what it was…Always Aunt Pet's way…T'hell w' love…” He appeared to pass out.

Judith hoped Alex would feel better after a nap. She got out of the Alfa, heading for the walk with its close-cropped privet hedge. When she reached the front door, it was already open. Lona Tinsley, now attired in a forest-green cashmere sweater and a Black Watch tartan pleated skirt, glared at her guest with unfriendly blue eyes.

“My husband is resting after his arduous weekend,” she announced in her chilly voice. “If you'd checked with his office, you'd know he's not accepting any more appointments this afternoon.”

Judith put on her most pathetic manner. “Oh, dear! I'd so hoped to see him about the will. Now I'll have to go to the police. But,” she went on, just a trifle slyly, “I'm sure Mr. Tinsley is much too modest to want to be a hero.”

Mrs. Tinsley's tight little face couldn't quite conceal her curiosity. “What sort of hero?”

Judith wore her most ingenuous expression. “Why, in
solving the murder, of course. Oh, I'm a firm believer in the police—my husband is a policeman, after all. But I know how they have to follow procedures. It's so time-consuming. And meanwhile, the perp—the criminal, I should say—may abscond. That's why I feel that your husband should share his special insights with
someone
. If he hasn't already, I mean.”

Now Lona Tinsley looked not only curious but perplexed. It was obvious that she felt her husband wouldn't have known an insight if it fell on his head from a fourth-floor window.

“Really, I couldn't say…” In what was no doubt a rare fit of confusion, Lona opened the door all the way and asked Judith to step inside. “Do sit,” she said, indicating the tidy parlor. “I'll fetch Arthur.”

Judith sat on a muted plaid sofa. The parlor was so clean and uncluttered that it could have been a showcase at Donner & Blitzen Department Store. The only ornaments were a cut-glass vase filled with spring flowers, a trio of Chinese bowls, a gilt-bronze mantel clock with an ivory face that had no numbers, and a wedding picture in an austere silver frame. Even the fireplace was pristine, with a clean grate and three artistically placed logs.

Judith took advantage of her hostess's absence to study the wedding picture. It was, expectedly, of Lona and Arthur. She wore a fitted beige jacket over a matching fluted skirt; he was attired in a dark three-piece suit. Lona's hair hadn't changed a bit; Arthur's had receded quite noticeably. Judith guessed that the photo had been taken some ten years earlier.

“I'm sorry,” Lona Tinsley said from somewhere behind Judith. “My husband isn't here. He must have gone for a walk. He often does, when he's low in his mind.”