Auntie Mayhem (23 page)

Embarrassed at having been caught staring at the photograph, Judith awkwardly sat back down on the sofa. “He is? Low, I mean. Is that because of Miss Ravenscroft?”

If Lona Tinsley had noticed Judith's snooping, she gave no sign. “I suppose,” Lona answered a bit uncertainly. Arranging her pleats carefully, she sat down opposite Judith. “Miss Ravenscroft was a valued client of many years'
standing. But Arthur is also distressed over
other things
.”

Having somehow found a chink in Lona's armor, Judith pressed her advantage. “You mean the murder?”

“Oh, that!” Lona dismissed murder as if it were the common cold. “No, I'm referring to his responsibilities. Arthur takes his work very seriously.” The chilly visor dropped down again over Lona's face. “Excuse me, I'm speaking out of turn. If you'd care to give me your information, I'll pass it on to my husband.”

Judith, however, was shaking her head sadly. “Responsibilities!” she echoed. “They're such a burden for conscientious people. The worst of it is when others step in and manage to make a mess of things. Like the missing will,” she added pointedly.

Lona's unblemished skin darkened. “How could you guess?” She seemed genuinely astonished. “Why, that's it! Arthur
knows
he didn't lose that earlier will. Someone must have stolen it. But who?”

“But why?” Judith evinced sympathy. “That's the real question. The only people who would have benefited by the August will are in Swaziland.”

Lona nodded vigorously. “That's precisely what Arthur says. It makes no sense. But it shows Arthur in a poor light. What will people think if word gets out that he can't keep track of his clients' important legal documents? Is it any wonder that he's sick at heart?”

Judith clucked her tongue. “Village gossip must be cruel. Is Arthur sure he had the original will in his office?”

Lona's color, which had started to return to normal, now deepened again. “Not the original. He'd brought that to Miss Ravenscroft on Friday. He left it with her. But he had a copy at the office. That's gone, too, though I can't think how anyone could have taken it. He didn't see any clients on Saturday, except Colonel Chelmsford.”

Judith successfully concealed her surprise. “The property dispute, I suppose,” she murmured.

Lona shrugged. “I really couldn't say.”

“Who works with your husband?” Judith asked, wondering at the back of her brain why Colonel Chelmsford
would consult Arthur Tinsley on a matter that was clearly a conflict of interest for the solicitor.

“He has a secretary, Mrs. Radford. She's been with him for years. In fact, she was trained by Arthur's father. But she didn't come in on Saturday. There was no need, especially since the colonel didn't have a scheduled appointment.”

Judith was about to inquire more deeply into Mrs. Radford's background when Lona continued: “In fact, Mrs. Radford left at noon Friday. She spent the weekend taking care of her grandchildren in Yeovil.”

The secretary wouldn't have known about Aunt Pet's desire to make a new will. It sounded as if Mrs. Radford was out of the running. Judith had almost hoped that her maiden name was Paget. Or was there another missing link? Judith frowned.

“Say, Mrs. Tinsley, do you know what Emily Ravenscroft's name was before she married George?”

Lona frowned back. “Who?”

“George Ravenscroft, the missionary. You know, the one in Swaziland.”

“Oh.” Lona shook her head. “No, I've never met them. I don't believe they spend much time in England. I've only lived in these parts since Arthur and I were married eleven years ago.”

Judith understood that Lona Tinsley still would consider herself a relative newcomer to a village such as Little Pauncefoot. “You're from…?” Judith prompted, for lack of anything more pertinent to say.

“London. Well, Tottenham, actually. But I lived in Kensington for some years with my first husband.” Primly, she lowered her gaze until it rested on the plain gold wedding band. “He was a doctor. That's how I met Arthur.”

Judith tackled the obvious question at an oblique angle: “I'm married for the second time, too. My first husband died young.”

Lona's neatly coiffed head came up. “Oh—so did mine! Isn't it tragic?”

“Yes, it is,” Judith replied automatically.
No, it isn't. Not when it gives you a second chance at life. Not when
your first husband is trying to drink and eat and otherwise abuse himself into the grave and would just as soon take you along with him or send you to the funny farm
. But Judith let the expected reaction stand. “Was he ill?” she inquired in a neutral tone.

Lona nodded. “His heart. He'd had the condition all his life. Such irony—but then he wasn't a heart specialist.” She gave Judith a tight, wry smile, as if Death had played a terrific joke on the doctor.

“I see,” Judith said, and while she didn't, her thoughts were running off in other directions. “Arthur was a patient, I take it.”

“Yes.” Lona was no longer smiling and had stood up. “It's getting rather late. If you'd like to tell me whatever it was you came to see Arthur about…” She let the sentence fade away.

“Oh—sure.” Judith also stood up. “It's about the handwritten will. Arthur's seen it, of course, but he may not have noticed that there's something odd about it. Being a solicitor, he'd probably be able to explain it. It's possible that the peculiarity might indicate who murdered Miss Ravenscroft.”

Lona Tinsley was now looking very puzzled. “If Arthur's seen it, why didn't he mention this ‘peculiarity'?”

Judith picked up her handbag and started for the door. “He may not have noticed it. I didn't either, the first time I saw it. Will you have him call me at Ravenscroft House?”

“Certainly.” The mask was back in place. If anything, Lona was even more glacial, especially when she looked outside and saw the recumbent form of Alexei Karamzin. “Who is
that?
” she demanded.

Judith's grin was feeble. “My chauffeur. He's sort of tuckered out.”

Lona made no comment, except to close the door. Judith hurried to the Alfa, where she gave Alex a sharp shake. He rolled over onto the passenger seat, snoring lustily.

With a sigh, Judith shoved him out of the way and got behind the wheel. Fortunately, she was used to the stick shift in Joe's beloved old MG. She was also relieved that she didn't have to be driven by a drunk. Reminding herself
to stay on the left-hand side of the road, she managed the half-mile to the village without incident. Halfway up Farriers Lane, she spotted Renie, who was studying the plantings in the village green's border.

“Want a lift?” she called, coming to a full stop.

“Sure,” Renie replied, moving toward the car. “Where's Alex?”

Judith pointed to the bucket seat. “Push him under the dashboard. It's his turn.”

Renie did as she was told. With pleasure. The cousins returned to Ravenscroft House.

S
INCE IT WASN
'
T
raining, Judith had no compunction about leaving Alex in the car. She removed the keys, however, and handed them to Harwood, who was at the door. The butler did not look pleased, but said nothing.

“Where is everybody?” Judith asked, taking off her jacket.

Harwood pursed his lips. It was obvious that he didn't think it proper to confide the whereabouts of family members to virtual strangers. On the other hand, Miss Ravenscroft had remembered them in her will.

“Mr. Charles is in the library. Mrs. Charles is in her room. Miss Natasha has gone out.” Taking the cousins' jackets, Harwood also took two unsteady backward steps. “Will that be all?”

“That's great,” Judith said cheerfully. “I mean, that's all. Thanks. Very much.” She gave herself a shake, wishing she were more experienced in dealing with upper-class British servants of the old school. Her only background was Phyliss Rackley, which didn't count, since she was a fellow American and inclined to take orders only under duress while offering a great deal of criticism in return. As for discretion, Judith's cleaning woman probably thought it was a disease. One of these days, she'd come down with a life-threatening case of it, too. Phyliss was highly suggestible.

It was almost five o'clock, which caused Judith to
hurry out to the kitchen. Mrs. Tichborne was nowhere to be seen, though judging from the fresh vegetables laid out on the counter, she was in the vicinity.

“Let's call Doodles before he leaves the office,” Judith said, going to the phone. “There's a London directory under the counter. Can you look up his number?”

“Under Doodles? Probably not.” Renie made a face at Judith. “What's his real name? I don't remember—I didn't have the pleasure of meeting the guy.”

“Woodley Swinford,” Judith replied a bit impatiently. “He's the animal insurance agent.”

“I know that part,” Renie replied, flipping through the pages of the big London phone book. “I just couldn't remember his real name.”

But Renie found a listing, in Maida Vale. “It might be his home,” she said. “Maybe he works out of his house.”

Judith punched in the numbers as Renie read them off. Doodles answered on the second ring. Judith asked her questions; Doodles gave his answers. Judith hung up, a mystified expression on her face.

“There's been no claim,” she said, still standing by the phone. “Not from the Marchmonts, not from anybody at Ravenscroft House. I'm baffled.”

“I'm hungry,” Renie said, grabbing a raw carrot from the counter. “So what?”

“Let's go,” Judith said, racing out of the kitchen.

“Where?” Renie asked, swiping another carrot but following on Judith's heels.

“The stables. I want to see if Balthazar is still there. Dead or alive.”

Retrieving their jackets from the small closet off the entrance hall, the cousins hurried out into the mild early evening air. A cursory glance showed them that Alex was still sleeping in the Alfa. They passed him and continued through the gardens.

The Ravenscroft stables were a wondrous sight, at least from the standpoint of Judith and Renie, whose nodding acquaintance with American barns was limited to ramshackle cowsheds from which they had occasionally bought cut-'em-yourself Christmas trees. A mug of hot chocolate
and a teenager in a Santa hat provided the atmosphere. Thus, they were unprepared for the splendor in which the Ravenscroft hunters lived.

“Wow!” Judith gasped, amazed at the orderliness and cleanliness of the high-roofed building that housed the bloodstock. “This is like an equine Four Seasons.”

Chewing on a carrot, Renie also admired the animal luxury. She had a quibble, however: “It still smells like horse…stuff,” she remarked. “Look, their stalls have nameplates, just like corporate executives. Why do I figure these dumb animals are smarter?”

Before Judith could answer, a rangy lad in his middle teens appeared seemingly out of nowhere. “Wot may I do ye fer?” he inquired, scratching his armpit.

“Where's Balthazar?” Judith asked with a slightly startled smile.

The youth shrugged. “Balthazar be gone. He were at the end.”

Sure enough, Balthazar's nameplate remained in place. But the stall was empty. Judith glanced at the other horses, who eyed the cousins with well-bred curiosity. Orion. Circe. Diablo. Columbina. Fricka. Scorpio. The names resonated with romance. Judith smiled tautly as she thanked the stable boy and went back out into the pasture.

“Well?” Renie inquired, still wrinkling her nose. “Aren't you going to ask about my library adventure?”

Judith was chewing on her lower lip. “Oh—right. What did you find out about hyoscyamine?”

“Little Pauncefoot's research materials are very limited,” Renie said as they headed back toward the formal gardens. “You'd be appalled. But I found a source book for poisons. Hyoscyamine comes from such plants as henbane, mandrake, nightshade, and thorn apple. The last one is also known as Jimsonweed, and it smells bad. It's not indigenous to the U.K., but was discovered by English colonists at Jamestown. Hence, the corruption to Jimsonweed. It's been imported to this country over the years, and because of its showy summer flowers, the English plant it despite the fact that
it smells worse than horse stuff
.” Renie shot Judith a look of triumph.

At the bottom of the stone steps that led to the rose arbor, Judith stopped in her tracks. “You mean—those foul plants along the village green are Jimsonweed?”

Renie gave Judith a quirky smile. “They fit the description in the book. That's why I was studying them when you drove up in the Alfa. The fruit appears in the fall and contains little black seeds,” she went on, obviously trying to recite from memory. “The whole plant is poisonous but the leaves are the most toxic. If you noticed, there were still some pods lying on the ground.”

Judith had noticed, vaguely. “So if you knew about Jimsonweed, you could gather the leaves, grind them up, and slip the stuff inside a chocolate.”

Renie nodded. “But most people probably wouldn't know it was poison.”

Slowly, Judith began to ascend the steps. “Maybe.” She turned to look over her shoulder at Renie. “Do you remember what Dr. Ramsey said after Aunt Pet died?”

“That she was dead?” Renie narrowed her eyes at Judith's back. “It seemed like the right call at the time.”

“No, you idiot,” Judith snapped, increasing her pace as they reached level ground. “I mean about Aunt Pet's symptoms. Dr. Ramsey said he'd treated some kids with similar problems. Maybe he suspects the source, but he can't be sure because several of those other plants grow around here, especially the varieties of nightshade. What do you bet those kids were playing on the green and ate something off the Jimsonweed? Word would get out in a place like this. Everyone would know the stuff was poison. It would be necessary to warn parents.”

Renie grew thoughtful. “Yes, just like warning our kids when they were little not to eat seeds or berries that they found in the yard. So much of what grows in an ordinary garden can be lethal. You hear about accidental poisonings every summer.”

Judith was looking at her watch. “It's five-thirty. Dr. Ramsey will have gone home. Let's go see the colonel.”

“What for?” Renie demanded. “He won't want to see us.”

“I'll think of some reason why he should,” Judith said,
then abruptly reversed in front of a rectangular lily pond. “We'll take the shortcut. Maybe we can avoid the locked gate as well as the dogs.”

Judith's shortcut turned out to be more dangerous than she'd envisioned. Having returned to the pasture, the cousins followed the stone wall to the river. Colonel Chelmsford was right about access for his cows: The wall stopped just above the riverbank, which sloped easily on the Ravenscroft side. But the hill grew very sheer on The Grange's property. Judith and Renie had to create footholds to climb the short distance.

They came out at the rear of the house, which up close showed signs of deterioration. Catching her breath, Judith knocked on the back door.

Colonel Chelmsford was in his shirtsleeves, holding a pipe in one hand and a newspaper in the other. His recognition of the cousins dawned slowly.

“You again,” he muttered as one of the dogs barked from somewhere in the house. “Well?”

“Where's Balthazar?” Judith asked, forcing urgency into her voice. “We're told he was brought here last night. Mr. Swinford is furious!”

The colonel's eyes bulged. “Swinford? Who the devil is Swinford?”

“The insurance agent,” Judith responded, still seemingly disturbed. “He thinks there's some sort of scam. The police don't take insurance fraud lightly.”

“Bloody hell!” shouted Colonel Chelmsford over the dog's persistent bark. He appeared torn between slamming the door in the cousins' faces and letting them in. Turning almost purple, he finally stood aside. “Come in, come in, no point in standing around half-in, half-out.”

“Thanks,” Judith said, losing some of her bogus steam as she and Renie entered the long, utilitarian hallway. “So where's the horse?”

Colonel Chelmsford tucked the newspaper under an arm, then pulled on his pipe. It had gone out. He cursed again, but under his breath.

“Balthazar's not here. I merely kept him overnight. Now what's this business about insurance fraud?”

Judith nodded sagely. “I figured you shipped him off in that truck this morning. You seemed very anxious to catch up with the livestock haulers.”

“They came early,” the colonel grumbled. “It'd never do for anyone to be on schedule. Usually, they're late. People today have no sense of time.”

Next to Judith, Renie was running a hand through her short chestnut hair and looking mystified. “Excuse me, I think I missed something. Balthazar is alive and well?”

Judith nodded, then turned her attention back to the colonel. “He's at another farm, I assume?”

“Of course,” Colonel Chelmsford replied. “Montagues' place near Compton Bishop. Fine people. Good horse sense. Now tell me what this is in aid of.”

Having gotten the facts out of the colonel, Judith wasn't sure how to proceed. “It seems as if someone was trying to collect a big insurance policy on Balthazar—as much as fifty thousand pounds. He was supposed to be destroyed, but Natasha Karamzin wouldn't stand for it. She and Walter Paget went through the motions, but afterward, Nats rode Balthazar over here instead of calling Mr. Swinford, the insurance agent. Since I gather you don't have the facilities for keeping horses, at least not for long, she asked you to have Balthazar shipped to this other farm. How am I doing?”

“First-rate,” Chelmsford said, amazement evident on his cherry-ripe face. “How did you guess?”

Judith gave a small shrug. “It's not exactly a guess. We didn't hear any trucks come to Ravenscroft House last night. Walter loves those hunters, so he wouldn't do anything as inhumane as shooting one of them. Yet Balthazar isn't at the stables. If he left, it had to be under his own power.
Ergo
, the horse couldn't be dead. Either Natasha or Walter had to ride him somewhere, and the obvious choice was The Grange. You've got a barn, and it's not likely that Charles or Claire would come snooping around here before you could move Balthazar to a permanent spot.”

Renie was looking almost as dumbstruck as the colonel. “You mean that drama we saw last night was a sham? Coz, why didn't you say so?”

Judith turned a sheepish face to Renie. “Because I didn't know for sure until we went to the stables just now. Heck, I couldn't tell one horse from another anyway, unless they'd been put back in their stalls with the nameplates. Which they were, except that Balthazar's stall was empty and the stable boy verified that the horse was gone. Charles must be wondering why he hasn't heard from the insurance agent.”

Colonel Chelmsford's color was returning to its normal ruddy shade. He was pacing the narrow hallway which was littered with old newspapers, empty pails, cardboard boxes, and sacks of dog food.

“Miss Natasha asked a favor,” he said, more to himself than his unexpected guests. “Imagine my surprise! As if the Ravenscrofts ever asked a Chelmsford for anything these past seventy years! But I—we—owed it to them, and she has a pretty way about her when she wheedles. She told me Charles wanted to sell Balthazar, but she wouldn't have it—he was her favorite. If I could find a home for him nearby, she'd be able to ride him occasionally. Well, why not? I said. Pleased as punch to put one over on Charles and the rest of that ilk. So I kept the horse for the night and had him brought 'round to Montagues'. They were delighted, I can tell you. The animal is a superb specimen.”

Midway through the colonel's explanation, Judith had derailed. “You owed the Ravenscrofts—for what? Your father's betrayal of Miss Petulia?”

If Colonel Chelmsford was surprised by the American stranger's intimate knowledge of village lore, he gave no sign. The colonel wasn't a curious type by nature.

“Not precisely that, no,” he said slowly, working with tobacco pouch and match to restart his pipe. “It was what came after.” Taking a deep puff, he fixed a surprisingly moist eye on Judith and Renie. “Dora Hobbs, to be exact. The Ravenscrofts took her in. Well, they had to, perhaps, since her mother was Lady Cordelia's maid. She died in childbirth. But the Ravenscrofts did right by the baby, in their way. True Christians and all that.” The colonel puffed on his pipe, and scanned the ceiling. “Dora was my father's
love-child. She's my half-sister. Never know it to look at her, but there it is. Life's a funny business, eh?”

Judith gulped and agreed that it certainly was.

 

It was after six when the cousins returned to Ravenscroft House via the main road. They had walked slowly, mulling over the information gleaned from Colonel Chelmsford.