A Will To Murder by Hilary Thomson

cook, Sheila, turned pancakes.  Rose was setting down a plate on the breakfast nook table for Arthur.  The housekeeper had insisted that the children eat here instead of the dining room, because children were always so messy.
    “There’s been an accident, Mrs. Marshpool.  Armagnac has paint on his clothes and needs a change at once.  He is in the carriage house.  There is also paint on the front steps.”  Katherine’s dignity as she spoke could not have been bettered.
    “Oh heavens,” the housekeeper moaned, and dashed out of the room.
    Arthur watched with interest.  He couldn’t believe that Mrs. Marshpool actually cared for somebody.
    “What did that goofball Armagnac do, auntie?  Here’s your breakfast, hon; if you want any more pancakes, just ask Sheila.”
    “He stopped my painters,” said Katherine, in a ‘he’s-just-made-an-ass-of-himself’ sort of way.
    Rose sighed.  “Is my lavender tea ready, Sheila?”
    “In a moment, ma’am.”  Some blonde strands had escaped the cook’s ponytail and headscarf, falling across her eyes.  “Your sage gruel is about ready, too.”
    “Do you think Father’s death has made him worse?” Rose said to her aunt.
    Arthur was glaring down at his plate.  “I like my peaches fuzzy,” he sulked.
    “It’s a nectarine, honey.  It’s supposed to be that way.”
    “Remember,” said Katherine, “you haven’t seen your brother for a while.  He’s been growing more pompous with age, but it’s partially James’ fault, as well.  They have been having some dreadful fights these past few weeks.  Your father wanted Armagnac to get a job, and Armagnac refused.  You know your brother’s always been lazy.  About three weeks ago James cut off his allowance to try to force him to work, but Armagnac only vowed to resist any sort of coercion.  It really would have been better if your brother had found a job right after college.  None of you has ever had to work, and I think that was wrong, in retrospect.”
    Arthur gave up on his nectarine.  As he examined the kitchen, he could see tall glass jars filled with stupid things like noodles and flour instead of cookies.  He slid off his chair and went to see what the cook was making.
    “Arthur, you’re getting in Sheila’s way and being a pest,” Rose said.  “If you’re hungry, go eat your breakfast.  Oh, that must be Richie I hear on the stairs.  There, now you can eat breakfast with your cousin.  Won’t that be nice?”
    Arthur was through the swinging door and inside the summer room before she could finish her sentence.  He wondered what it was with grownups.  They always claimed to have been kids once, too.
    Cautiously, he hid behind the summer room table until Richie passed, then rushed upstairs to go bat-hunting.  His nervousness about bats had vanished with the daylight, and now he wanted to see one.  All he could recall about them, however, were the featureless black silhouettes he cut out of construction paper at Halloween.
    The stairs ended at the third floor, but there had to be another flight somewhere since this house had an attic.  The carpet was so thick he couldn’t hear his own footfalls.  A black velvet curtain hung at the end of the hallway, and he studied it.  They wouldn’t hang a curtain over a bedroom door, would they?
    As he drew closer to the curtain, he heard a sniff from behind the door on his right and crept on past.  He recognized that sniff.  This was Briarly’s room with Briarly in it.  The next door had a piece of paper labeled ‘Enter and Die,’ taped to it.  Richie’s room, of course.  
    Then Arthur caught a glimpse of something inside a vast shadowy room on his left.  In a far corner he could see the jut of a skinny chin at the height of a man’s head.  Above it were teeth, seen in profile, but there was no nose where one ought to be.
    Arthur stood frozen and strained his eyes.  He felt for a light switch inside the large room but couldn’t