A Will To Murder

by Hilary Thomson

Salisbury gazed at the cigarette, then turned away. “Are we ready to go inside?” he asked his wife.

  Heydrick walked off, disappearing again around the side of the house.

  “He didn’t even say hello to me,” said Rose, taken aback. “He always has before.”

  “Of course. It’s because he’s deranged,” Jac said as she rang the intercom button.

  “Who is it, please?” said a female voice from inside the house.

  “It’s the family, Mrs. Marshpool,” Rose called over her sister’s shoulder.

  “Oh, that’s all we need,” the voice replied.

  Chapter 4

  They were let into the foyer by Mrs. Marshpool, the housekeeper of Rollingwood. Mrs. Marshpool was a tall woman in her early fifties with a deeply-lined mouth and blunt-cut blonde hair. She wore a white blazer and slacks. Bert whispered to his wife, “Looks like the sadistic head psychiatrist of an all-female institution.”

  Rose swatted him.

  The housekeeper was barring the way with crossed arms. She had not yet blinked, and indeed, didn’t seem to need to.

  “Hello,” said Rose. “Does Aunt Katherine know we’re here?”

  “Don’t keep us standing here, Marshpool,” added Jac in an acid tone.

  “We’ve had a long drive,” said Rose hastily, trying to soften her sister’s rudeness. “This is my husband Bert. I don’t think you’ve met him before.”

  The housekeeper lifted an eyebrow. Bert gave her a cold nod. He knew the Boyles thought him vulgar, but he wasn’t willing to take crap from the servants as well.

  “--and my son Arthur.”

  Arthur gulped. “Hi,” he said weakly.

  “You children mustn’t touch anything,” said the housekeeper with a scowl. “We have many valuable antiques here at Rollingwood and they must not be damaged.”

  “Not even the doorknobs?” asked Richie with a grin.

  “Stop lecturing my children,” Jac flared. “Father’s dead and you have no authority anymore.”

  “Just wait until the will is read,” replied Mrs. Marshpool, unperturbed.

  “Oh, I hope you’re let off with a handshake and a fiver,” snarled Jac.

  “Jac, please don’t start a fight,” Rose begged around another antacid.

  “Yeah, honey,” added Phil. “By the way, where are your aunt and your brother?”

  “Mr. Armagnac is in the library,” said the housekeeper coldly, “and he’ll come out to greet you when he’s ready.”

  “Oh, he will, will he?” growled Jac.

  “--and Ms. Katherine--” The housekeeper paused. A gray-haired old lady was heading towards them. This was Katherine Boyle, the deceased James’ sister. Mrs. Marshpool stepped aside, professional composure replacing the threat on her face. As Katherine clutched armloads of family in greeting, Arthur looked to see how Briarly would react to her great-aunt, but the girl was gone.

  Katherine also tried to embrace Richie, but Phil, with the insight of a parent, yanked the boy back before the old lady could impact. “He’s very pleased to meet you,” said Phil hurriedly. “Richie, go find your sister. She seems to have gone outside.”

  “I have a housegift for you, Aunt Katy,” Rose said, “a bottle of my dandelion wine.”

  “Wonderful! We’ll have it for tea.”

  “What’s with your clothes?” Jac asked.

  Katherine was wearing a paint-splattered flannel shirt and old khakis. She giggled. “I’m redecorating. Don’t tell Armagnac.”

  “Madam,” Mrs. Marshpool interrupted, “you need to tell them about the arrangements?”

  For a second Katherine looked blank. “Oh yes! James, well.”

  “I’m beginning to feel sorry for the old guy,” said Bert in an undertone to Phil.

  “Don’t bother,” replied Salisbury.

  At this point, Rose keened her condolences to her aunt, and the two women hugged again. Jac gave her husband a sour look at such hypocrisy.

  “There won’t be any church service, I’m afraid,” said Katherine, releasing her niece. “You know he hated churches. His remains are over at the funeral home right now. Douthit claims the shock did his bad heart in. Well, we can’t all have sound hearts at our age. I’ve got a weak ticker myself. But anyway, someone needs to go with Armagnac to tell Douthit what’s necessary for the funeral.”

  “I refuse to face that sick freak Douthit!” Jac declared. “Rose, you’ll have to do it.” Addressing the housekeeper, she added, “Go tell my rudely missing brother that Rose is accompanying him to the funeral home.”

  “In a few minutes,” replied Mrs. Marshpool calmly. “First, I need to say that Mr. Boyle instructed me to inform you that Mr. Hamilton wants to talk with everyone tomorrow about the will.”

  “Armagnac has already spoken to him?” asked Jac sharply. Douglas Hamilton was the family lawyer.

  Mrs. Marshpool eyed her. “Yes. I do not know what was said. But the police were asking questions about the late Mr. Boyle’s death. It was a very peculiar way to die.”

  “They questioned me and Armagnac,” said Katherine hesitantly. “They questioned the staff too, but they couldn’t find out who put that CD player in James’s car. No fingerprints were found on the player. The police took the car to check it over, but they returned it yesterday. Willowby had been gone on vacation for two weeks and he had just returned the morning James died. We don’t usually lock the car bays during the day, and they weren’t locked while Willowby was gone. We have no idea who could have gotten at the Mercedes-Knight. Well, that’s all of that,” she concluded in a warily treading voice. “Now, come see the house! Mrs. Marshpool, have Willowby get their bags.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Apparently, the old lady’s idea of decorating was to tablescape her way to the bughouse. Arthur lifted the lids off every candy-looking dish he could see, (and there were very, very, many), but nothing was inside all the snuff boxes, ginger jars, tea canisters, and tobacco boxes that he explored. Disappointed, he wondered how they could afford this great big house and yet have no candy in the dishes.

  There were two long sofas in the living room, one I-shaped, the other L-shaped, with four Chinese urns at the ends. Behind the L-shaped sofa was a staircase, and to the right of this was a set of folding doors that led into a dining room. In the summer room, which was just off the living room and opposite the foyer, Katherine had covered a table with vases, potting foam, and wire frogs. “It’s a mess over there,” said Ms. Boyle, “I’m arranging flowers.”

  Arthur was studying a silver-framed photograph of a lady on a side table. She had an old-fashioned permanent wave and wore heavy lipstick. In front of the frame someone had inserted two smaller photos that looked like school pictures: a young man with a crew-cut and a loutish, lopsided smile; and a very pretty blonde girl who might be about the same age. “Who are these people?” he asked Katherine.

  “Oh, you found those, Arthur? Those are family photos. James always made me keep them locked away, but I’m displaying them now.” Katherine laughed exultantly. “I should have your photo displayed, too, but I can’t seem to find the picture your mother sent me. I put it in a frame of seashells.”

  “But who are they?” Arthur piped again, pointing. Katherine didn’t hear, for she was already waving everyone to look out the summer room windows. The boy decided to ask again later.

  Unobserved, Briarly had left the others for the library. But after creeping inside, she hesitated, taken aback by the gloomy formality of the room. Dark shelves went all the way to the ceiling, and there was even a ladder for the top ones. The rug, patterned with faint vines, looked as though it hadn’t been cleaned in decades. A man was sitting at a wide mahogany desk in the center of the room, writing a letter. He wore tortoiseshell glasses and a suit and tie. His thinning hair was slicked back, and he didn’t appear to have noticed her.

  “I love you, Uncle Armagnac!” the girl blurted. Then she covered her mouth.

  The man lifted his head and cons
idered her a moment. “How much did your mother pay you to say that to me?” Armagnac asked.

  “Ten dollars,” said Briarly, removing her hand long enough to reply.

  He reached inside his coat pocket. “If I give you twenty,” said Mr. Boyle, opening his wallet, “will you promise never to say that to me again?”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, don’t just stand there quivering. Take the money and go.” He shook the bill in his fist.

  The girl snatched the money from him and escaped into the summer room. “Uncle Armagnac gave me twenty dollars,” she said breathlessly to her father.

  Arthur couldn’t believe it. Twenty dollars? He decided to try this source of revenue himself. However, when he stole inside the library door, the sight of Armagnac made him clutch Frederick doubtfully. Arthur looked at his rabbit, squinted hard at his uncle, then looked back at Frederick. The resemblance was unmistakable. Frederick and Uncle Armagnac were ringers for each other. They had the same buck teeth, the same ball-like nose, the same round glasses; even the same stupid expression. Except that Uncle Armagnac didn’t have whiskers or long ears. Also, Frederick was actually rather endearing. His uncle lacked this quality. With an insight beyond his seven years, Arthur shoved the rabbit behind his back.

  His uncle lifted his eyes. “What on earth are you?” Boyle asked.

  “Your nephew, Arthur Cummings.”

  “How did you recognize me?” Armagnac pushed his glasses up with his pen. “I’ve never met you before.”

  “There’s a picture of you at home looking really nasty,” Arthur said, realizing too late this might not be the best description to give.

  “And what are you here for?” his uncle asked in a glacial tone.

  “Can I have a dollar?”

  “No. Now leave.”

  “Are you going to be like this the whole visit?” wailed Arthur.

  “Yes. Now go away and keep out of my rooms.”

  Glumly, the boy left the library. He intended to sulk, but his mother made him go into the living room and introduce himself to Briarly. He shoved Frederick inside one of the Chinese urns on his way, not about to meet a girl while holding a stuffed rabbit.

  “Here, Arthur, you two have a nice little talk while Katherine shows us what she’s been renovating.”

  Briarly’s face was suspicious, and Arthur examined her resentfully. She was taller than he was, he noted with disgust. She was breathing red soda breath into his face. It wasn’t fair that she had gotten a twenty-dollar bill and he hadn’t. But he supposed he ought to say something to this cousin-like creature. “Do you know that seagulls can’t burp? If you give them an Alka-Seltzer they will explode,” he told her.

  Briarly only stared at him. She didn’t seem very trusting, and with Richie as a brother, Arthur didn’t blame her.

  “I don’t want to talk to you. I want to play with my doll,” she replied, and raced out the front door.

  Arthur was somewhat disappointed. He had been hoping for one decent kid to play with, since Richie was obviously a monster. He shrugged and wandered over to his mother, stopping briefly to fetch Frederick from the urn. Rose stooped to pluck a cobweb off the rabbit. “Where’d Briarly go?” she asked.

  “To get a doll,” replied Arthur, wrinkling his nose.

  A large black Labrador came loping down the stairs just then. At the bottom, the dog lost his footing on a throw rug and skidded, slamming right into the library wall. Everyone jumped, but the dog only leapt up and panted happily, as if ignorant of his accident. A second later Armagnac came out of the library. Now that he was upright, the visitors could see his stomach was one of those ski-slope ones, with a jump at the end. Boyle glowered at the Labrador. “You stupid dog. You hit the wall so hard you knocked some books off a shelf on the other side. Why don’t you aim at one of these bibelot tables and actually do some good?”

  “Don’t speak like that to poor old Barksdale,” said Katherine. “And it’s about time you appeared to greet your relatives.”

  “I’ve met them all before, dear lady, including this little nephew who was trying to panhandle from me a moment ago. I was merely gathering my nerve to see what you’ve inflicted on the house this morning. As you notice, the latch on Aunt Katherine’s cage has broken.” Boyle’s prominent foreteeth flashed in and out as he spoke, and Arthur was mesmerized by the sight.

  “I think the house looks nice,” Jac retorted.

  “I do, too,” added Rose.

  “Oh.” Katherine shook her head. “Do you remember that seedy men’s club look? All that mahogany furniture and the winged armchairs?”

  “I liked it that way,” said Armagnac. “This is not legally your house, remember.”

  Katherine’s chin rose. “The house painters are coming tomorrow to do a test patch,” she declared.

  “What!?!”

  “That’s right. The outside is going to be pink, light blue, and cream. I refuse to live in this ridiculous hearse one day longer.”

  “You can’t do that. You can’t alter anything until the will is read!” Armagnac stormed.

  “Stop it!” cried Rose. “We have to go to the funeral home. Could you stop quarreling long enough for us to see to Daddy’s remains?”

  “All right,” sighed Armagnac. “We’ll take your car. Don’t you do anything until we get back,” he told his aunt. Katherine only shook her jowls at him.

  After the front door shut, Bert commented, “I’m beginning to think I need an antacid myself.”

  “I’m glad I smoke,” replied Phil, lighting up another.

  Willowby interrupted them, stepping inside the living room. “I’d like to offer my condolences to all of you,” the chauffeur said. These words were received with uneasy silence.

  “Had you seen that CD around anywhere, Willowby?” Bert asked.

  The chauffeur shrugged. “No. I’d never even heard of Jazzy F*KU. I don’t listen to anything except Guy Lombardo or Benny Goodman. The boss interrogated me about my musical tastes before he hired me. Guy Lombardo doesn’t make me popular, but it’s what I like.”

  “The police were surprised by that,” said Katherine, “but it’s true. None of us knows where that CD came from.”

  “The police thought it was a practical joke that went amiss,” Willowby said. “Here, I’d better get your bags.”

  “And I’ll show you what I’ve done to the rest of the house.” Katherine added, “Look, I’m stenciling the walls!”

  “I’d be pleased to see your handiwork,” said Phil, “but I need to see if my kids have gotten into trouble.” Salisbury headed out the front door.

  “And I need to unpack,” said Jac, starting up the stairs after Willowby. “I’ll be down in a while.”

  “Well,” said Katherine to Bert and Arthur. “What haven’t you seen on this floor? The kitchen is just off the summer room. Let’s show you the dining room.” She opened a folding door to display some mahogany furniture and an imperial red carpet. A chandelier with a hundred dirty glass prisms hung over the dining table. Another door led into the kitchen.

  “What in he--earth is that?” asked Bert. He pointed at a huge tarnished candelabrum on the dining table.

  “Oh that.” Katherine waved a hand disgustedly. “That’s the family peacekeeper. James and Armagnac could only manage to be civil to each other because they couldn’t see each other around it.”

  Tactfully, Cummings switched topics. “What about these cowboy paintings on the walls? You like these, Arthur?”

  “Cowboy pictures! Sailing pictures! Hunting pictures! Sports pictures! They have got to go,” Katherine blurted. “I’m selling the Remingtons as soon as I can contact an auction house!”

  “Won’t Armagnac object?” asked Bert.

  The old lady looked fierce. “We’ll see what he objects to. Here, I’ll show you the library.”

  Once inside the book-filled room, Katherine said, “My father began it, but James has added most of the volumes.” Many of the leather spine
s were decayed and flaking. Arthur read a few of the names, but the authors were strange to him--Rudyard Kipling, Theodore Roosevelt, Richard Harding Davis, John Buchan.

  “Chest-beating reading,” Bert said when he saw his son’s mystified expression. Behind the desk hung a large painting of three men, and Katherine explained them to Bert while Arthur wandered. “That’s my father in the middle, Hiram Boyle. On his right is Willis Smather, and to his left is Rick Jones. All three of them were the founding partners of Boyle’s Corn Plasters, although they called the company BSJ’s Medicated Foot Plasters back then. They were friends who had decided to go into business together, and each put up a third of the initial capital.”

  Hiram Boyle was a big, bull-necked man with a celluloid collar, a walrus mustache and two small, hard eyes. Willis Smather wore a bow tie and was rather weedy-looking. Rick Jones had brilliantined hair and a white-toothed smile, like a 1920s playboy.

  Meanwhile, Arthur had discovered a blowfish. It was hanging from the ceiling on a wire, and someone had shellacked it in puffed position, spines sticking out all over. Serious goose pimples, thought the boy.

  “The breakup of the partnership,” Katherine continued, “was a dreadful tragedy. Somebody said something, words were exchanged, snakes were mailed. The whole thing just horrified my father. Anyhow, Rick Jones was found dead. He had somehow fallen on a corn-paring knife. Willis Smather, sadly, committed suicide by drinking a bottle of BSJ’s Corn, Bunion, and Wart Cure. My father ended up inheriting the entire business.”

  “Hmm,” said Bert, a finger to his cheek.

  Underneath the blowfish was a glass display case, and Arthur pressed his nose against it. Inside were neat things like arrowheads, shells, and fossils. A twisting narwhal tusk stretched the entire length of the case, and the boy wondered how the case opened.

  “My father knew a few men on Wall Street, so he decided to sell his company right before the crash of ‘29. Then when all the stock prices were low, he made some shrewd investments with his money. The family has done pretty well since.”

  “Is this real?” Arthur asked, pointing to a slab of petrified tree trunk that lay on top of a radiator cover. He felt its polished, silky surface with his hand.