The Case of the Dotty Dowager

by Cathy Ace

  As he entered the American Bar, Alexander looked around for the man he hoped was going to be able to arrange an invitation for him to see the Chellingworth collection of antique dentures. Since Bill Coggins had mentioned its existence, he’d done some digging and, if the reports were to be believed, it would be a joy to see.

  He was a few minutes early for his seven p.m. appointment, and the bar was still bustling with people who’d stopped in for a drink after work, or were rushing to get away to theaters where curtains would rise at seven thirty. He could also spot the tourists for whom visiting the famed bar was on their ‘must-do’ list. More casually dressed than the office or theater crowd, he wondered what it would be like to be one of them; to have someone with whom he could share time away from work, away from home – away from the realities of life. He suspected it would be a delight to have someone with whom he could be himself – his complete self, not the manufactured and studied person he had become in order to allow his chameleon existence to continue. Settling on a stool at the bar, he considered his order while enjoying the excellent skills and artistry of the pianist who was putting the iconic, gleaming white Steinway piano through its paces.

  By the time his carefully acquired acquaintance, Jeremy Linwood, arrived, Alexander was enjoying the bittersweet taste of a Negroni and contemplating his opening gambit.

  EIGHT

  ‘Mother, will you please sit down. I’d like to do so, but I cannot if you will not.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Henry, it’s perfectly acceptable for you to sit in the presence of a woman who has been given adequate opportunities to take a seat but has clearly chosen not to do so.’

  ‘I don’t mean that such an action would wound societal norms, Mother, what I mean is that I cannot be comfortable with you pacing about all the time. Please sit a little while? We are in a sitting room, after all. I need to go through some of the details for the weekend with you.’

  Althea Twyst perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair which was upholstered in an alarming shade of green. Not sage. Not leaf. Just plain bilious. Henry’s artistic eye was further affronted because the dowager was dressed in beige and purple, which he felt drained her of any color. ‘Go on then,’ she urged, as she wriggled.

  Henry addressed his watch. ‘They’ll be here before too long. Ian will collect Mavis MacDonald from the railway station and deliver her here to the Dower House, and Christine Wilson-Smythe will arrive at the hall in her own vehicle. Can you remember all that we discussed about who this MacDonald woman is supposed to be?’

  Althea Twyst shook her head sadly. ‘Henry, you are such a worrier. Of course I remember. Mavis is a nurse who attended me when we were all up at the Scottish estate some years ago. For some reason, not defined by you, we became friends – which I have to say I think would be highly unlikely. In any case, we have kept in touch, and I have invited her to stay with me for the weekend. Do I have it right?’

  Henry nodded. Now that his mother had settled herself in a chair, or rather on one, he himself stood and began to pace. The sitting room was as snug and cozy as it could be given its massive dimensions, and paltry heating.

  ‘It is imperative that not one single member of the staff knows we have made these arrangements in order to ascertain the origins of the blood-stained bobble hat. If this all …’ Henry searched for the right way to express his worries about his mother’s mental capacities. ‘If this all comes to nothing, we don’t want them getting upset that we were considering one of them as possibly guilty of some sort of wrongdoing. It wouldn’t be fair.’

  ‘But spending all this time implying that I am senile is perfectly acceptable, is it, dear?’ asked Althea quietly. Her tone implied stoicism rather than annoyance.

  Henry gazed through the window at the copse at the bottom of the hill, dithering over his response for so long that his mother turned her attention to McFli, who, ever at her feet, was seeking attention by nudging her ankle. The dowager bent to scratch behind his ear, which caused him to groan with pleasure and set his tiny tail beating against the leg of the chair.

  Henry continued to stare out of the window as he said, ‘I have never used that word, Mother.’

  Althea Twyst looked at the back of her son’s head and replied, ‘You don’t have to say it, Henry, I can hear you think it.’

  She stood up, tapped her thigh to indicate that McFli should accompany her, and moved to stand beside her son. She reached up, put her hand on his shoulder, and patted him gently. They looked at each other, anxiety on the face of the son, comfort on the face of the mother.

  ‘I know it’s hard for you to believe, Henry, but I did see what I saw. And, somehow, we’ll find out what happened. I’m getting on, and I’m not the woman I once was. I know I have often found myself wondering why I have stood, or walked into a room, or cannot find my spectacles. But these are normal parts of the aging process, my dear. If you examine your own life I am sure you’ll be able to think of occasions when something similar has happened to you. After all, not even you are getting any younger. But I am still in possession of my faculties, Henry.’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ replied the worried son, anxious that he should sound convincing. He liked the feeling of his mother’s hand upon his shoulder; the warmth of her touch comforted him. He wondered about what his life would be like without her, and realized immediately that was not something he wanted to countenance.

  When her son had taken his leave, Althea Twyst informed Cook that she would like tea to be served upon the arrival of her guest, then settled herself on her favorite couch with a giant book of crossword puzzles. McFli jumped up beside her, circled a few times, then rested his back against his mistress’s thigh, stretching his four paws as far away from his body as possible, and making little snuffling sounds. The companions remained this way for the next forty minutes or so, until Althea heard the sound of an arrival in the entry hall. Setting aside her reading glasses, she stood. McFli trotted beside her as she prepared to act her way through greeting a woman she’d never so much as set eyes upon as though she were a long-lost friend. But she found that she needn’t have worried, as the diminutive figure beside Young Ian turned to her with such an open, welcoming visage, that her own immediately mirrored it. Anyone seeing the women’s expressions would have interpreted them as joyful.

  ‘My dear Mavis,’ said the dowager warmly.

  ‘Duchess,’ replied Mavis, very properly.

  ‘I have told you before, it is Althea to you, my dear,’ replied the dowager. The two women embraced.

  Ian Cottesloe, who’d refrained from making small talk with his passenger on the journey from the railway station, stood patiently holding Mavis MacDonald’s bags. He noted that the small Scottish woman was a couple of inches taller than his now-tiny mistress, but that both women seemed extraordinarily pleased to see each other. He wondered how they had come to be so close, given that he’d never met any other friends of the dowager’s. He’d rather assumed they must all be dead.

  ‘I’ll take these bags to your room,’ said Ian as he slipped past the women, who were heading to the sitting room.

  ‘Please tell Cook she can send up tea now,’ said Althea Twyst, still beaming at Mavis.

  ‘Och, that’s very kind of you, Althea,’ replied Mavis. ‘I could kill for a cuppa. And something sweet.’

  ‘Madeira cake, I believe,’ replied the dowager as she steered her ‘friend’ toward the desired room.

  ‘Perfect,’ exclaimed Mavis, as Althea closed the door to the hall behind them.

  Once alone the women regarded each other with smiles playing about their lips.

  ‘You’re very good, Your Grace,’ said Mavis.

  Althea grinned. ‘You too. And it really is Althea, even when we’re alone. I think I’m rather looking forward to this. You’re not at all what I expected a detective to be.’

  ‘That would be because I’m an enquiry agent, Althea, not a detective.’

  ‘And what would be the differ
ence between those two things, exactly?’ asked the dowager, settling onto the sofa and indicating that Mavis should choose a spot in which to sit.

  ‘Well, I realize it might seem like a nicety of semantics, but my personal opinion is that the term “enquiry agent” is more British. I cannot help but feel that the word “detective” has become endowed with all sorts of American overtones. And you won’t find a more British group of women than we four. We represent each of the four proud nations that comprise the United Kingdom, and we are all able to bring our own national, as well as uber-national, sensibilities to bear upon a case. We are a unique group, Althea, and British to the core. Of course, there’s the ribbing between us that I am sure you can understand, living so close to the border as you do. But we all work well together, and, though we are four women of very different ages and from very different social backgrounds, we are exceptionally good, loyal and reliable friends to each other, as well as being colleagues.’

  Althea took a moment to reply, but, when she did, she took Mavis by surprise. ‘I’m pleased to hear that you have developed a sense of sisterhood, but I have to say that, over my not inconsiderable lifetime, I have come to find I prefer the company of dogs, then horses, then men, then, least of all, women.’

  Mavis MacDonald’s green eyes twinkled as she replied, ‘Well, maybe you just haven’t met the right women, Althea.’

  McFli yapped, as though he’d understood every word, and both women smiled at him, Althea rubbing his ear. It was this picture of pleasant companionship which greeted the arrival of Jennifer Newbury, who entered pushing a wheeled tea trolley laden with crockery, silverware and a perfect loaf of golden cake.

  ‘My word, but that looks good,’ exclaimed Mavis.

  ‘Cook is second to none when it comes to cake, isn’t that right, Jennifer?’ said Althea proudly.

  ‘You’re quite right, Your Grace,’ replied Jennifer as she began to serve the cake and tea.

  While the young woman busied herself, Mavis MacDonald observed silently. Dark haired and eyed, Jenifer Newbury was a well-built young woman. Mavis was pleased to see that here was one young person, at least, who understood that it was perfectly acceptable for a woman to weigh more than a child and still be attractive. Her hair was glossy, and tied back in a classic chignon. She wore comfortable shoes, a dark, sensible two-piece suit and a powder-blue blouse. It wasn’t exactly a uniform, but it hinted at such. Her skirt skimmed her knees, her legs were bare, she wore just simple pearl stud earrings and a fine gold chain at her neck. No rings. Clean hands. No polish on her short nails. She looked clean, and Mavis noticed her light floral perfume. Good teeth. Sturdy, not willowy. Even features, not much make-up. A pretty smile, thought Mavis. She wondered why she’d chosen the life she had, and determined to find out.

  ‘You must be the Jennifer I’ve heard so much about,’ said Mavis. Althea looked somewhat taken aback, but Jennifer beamed.

  ‘I hope it was all good,’ said the young woman. Mavis knew she had to get her to say more than that, then maybe she’d be able to detect an accent. Carol’s note had said she couldn’t place the woman in Swindon, but that maybe she came from Leytonstone. Mavis decided to be direct.

  ‘And where is it you come from originally?’ she asked, accepting a cup and saucer.

  If the young lady’s aide was surprised to be asked such a question she certainly didn’t let it show. Smiling she replied, ‘My family was from Swindon, but we moved when I was quite young to an area outside London. I tried working in London at first, but I didn’t like the hustle and bustle. The country life suits me much better.’

  ‘She hasn’t always been a maid, have you, Jennifer?’ said Althea quietly.

  ‘You mean aide, Your Grace,’ replied Jennifer.

  ‘Do I?’ responded the dowager.

  Mavis sipped her scalding hot tea to try to cover her smile, then said, ‘What line were you in before you came here, dear?’ Mavis added a little extra Scottish lilt to her voice, which she always felt endeared her to people.

  Jennifer smiled. ‘I worked in a jewelry shop for a while, in Hatton Garden, as a sales assistant. Then in an antique shop that specialized in estate sales of jewelry, just off the Portobello Road. Then I decided that I’d prefer to work with living people rather than just things, so I got some qualifications and started to work as an aide at a place where older folks lived. Then I came here.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Mavis. And she meant it. ‘And are you preferring it, dear?’

  ‘Preferring what?’ asked Jennifer Newbury, looking puzzled.

  ‘Working with the living, rather than grubby old jewelry and ancient antiques,’ replied Mavis in a patient tone.

  Jennifer smiled. ‘Oh, yes. Absolutely. Her Grace is a joy to be with and, of course, I get to live in this wonderfully quiet home.’

  ‘And yet still surrounded by beautiful antiques,’ added Mavis.

  ‘But of course. My surroundings are both peaceful and beautiful,’ responded the young woman without taking her eyes off the cake she was cutting. ‘It’s the most wonderful place to live. I can breathe freely, and am able to see exquisite workmanship in every corner of every room in the house. And when we visit the hall – have you ever been there?’ She finally glanced in Mavis’s direction. Mavis shook her head. ‘Well, when you have the chance to visit it, do take it. It has the most wonderful paintings, sculptures and artifacts. Are you interested in art at all?’

  Mavis noted that the young woman had skilfully managed to turn the conversation, and wondered if this was something she did natur-ally, as a means of engaging her charge and the dowager’s guests, or whether it was because she wanted to hide something. Mavis decided that the aide with the background in jewelry and antiques was someone about whom she wanted to discover more. But it appeared that it would not be upon this occasion, because Jennifer served the cake, and left the room.

  ‘There’s no jewelry missing, I checked,’ said Althea as soon as the door closed.

  Mavis gazed thoughtfully over the rim of her cup. ‘Ach, so your mind went there too.’

  The dowager nodded and continued, ‘And I’ve snooped about in all the drawers and corners since IT happened, and I can tell you that nothing at all is missing. Even the ivory Japanese netsuke collection, which is very old, and very valuable, and would be by far the easiest thing to lift, each item being so small, is untouched.’ Althea Twyst sounded disappointed.

  ‘Lift?’ queried Mavis.

  ‘I do watch television, you know,’ replied the dowager. ‘I am not adrift in this place without a tether to the twenty-first century. I watch my fair share of criminal investigation dramas. I know very well that a body found with petechial hemorrhages of the eyes means that someone’s been strangled or suffocated. I am also fully aware of what Luminol does, and I could probably explain lividity to you if I needed to. I am not the geriatric idiot I suspect my son has led you believe me to be. I keep my mind alert at all times. In fact, I believe I could beat Henry at chess today, or at any given crossword. Unless all the clues were about art, then I know he’d beat me. I never had much time for art, but it’s all that he and his sister seem to care about. Very different types of art, of course, but what they choose to call art.’

  Mavis was enjoying the moistness of the cake in her mouth, and hoped she’d have time to savor the creamy flavor and dense, yet yielding texture, for at least a few moments. Luckily for Mavis, Althea seemed to be on something of a roll, so she munched happily as her hostess chattered away, absently petting McFli, whose nose was quivering in the direction of the cake plate.

  ‘I like art when it serves a purpose. The portraits in my entryway, for example. All good, no-nonsense pictures of people. No cameras. So there was a reason for them. A record of the family, dear dogs and horses, special farm animals, and so forth. I don’t mind paintings of fruit and flowers, or even a nice scene of the landscape, but Henry? He likes watercolors. Wishy-washy things, all of them. No substance. A bit like him. But
at least you can, usually, make out what they are. As for Clemmie? Well, I have no idea why what she likes is even called art. What’s artistic about splattering a bit of paint on an old broken chair or two, and balancing them on top of each other?’

  Mavis noted that Althea didn’t seem to expect an answer, though she did at least pause to draw breath.

  The dowager continued, ‘I think it’s all a big con. Remember that pile of bricks they bought at the Tate back in the 1970s? Same sort of thing. Utter rubbish. But that’s what Clemmie likes. I’ve told her not to expect to be able to put any of her “installation” things on display here. She says the public will love it. We’ve agreed to disagree. Fortunately, Henry is on my side, though I think she’s been working on him about some sort of sculpture garden. Probably a collection of hideous lumps of rock and iron. Nothing with a recognizable shape, I suspect. In any case, she tends to keep her interest in London, which is where she spends most of her time. We have the house there, you know, so she lives there, I live here, and Henry’s up at the hall. No one to live at the Scottish estate anymore, so it’s just run as a farm with the house on constant standby.’