“And mine as well,” said the ex-wife.
“Sorry to report, but you’re wrong, both of you. This property belongs to Gladys Deacon alone. I have the paperwork right here.”
Gads tapped his briefcase.
“You two,” Mrs. Spencer said, pointing one craggy finger first at Win and then at Pru. “Are supposed to be in Paris.”
“Yes, you mentioned that when you stabbed me in the rear with a pitchfork,” Win said.
“If you’re here about your stupid book…”
“What book?” the duke said.
“Don’t worry, my darling grandson,” Mrs. Spencer said. “Merely a thorough detailing of my past. You are featured prominently and in bad light. Seton.” She punched at the ground with her cane. “I’ll help you finish your precious life’s work, but you and Miss Valentine must leave. Now. Go back to Paris. And don’t tarry. Time is of the essence.”
“While we’re at it,” Gads said. “The rest of you should likewise decamp.”
“I’m not leaving until I get what’s owed to me,” said the ex-wife, sniffling up to the duke. “And you know exactly what that is.”
“Stop it!” Mrs. Spencer yelled, clonking the cane again, this time right beside the ex-wife’s foot, which caused her to pop a half meter off the ground.
The duke’s former wife was already besieged by a nervous disorder and all that pounding and shrieking only compounded the problem.
“Stop it right now!” Mrs. Spencer said. “Everybody stop grabbing at the people and things in this house!”
She reached for her holster. Like a receding tide, everyone in the room stepped back in chorus. Everyone, that is, except for Win and Pru. They were used to this show and knew Mrs. Spencer was, for the most part, all mouth and no trousers. And sometimes the no-trouser situation was literal to boot. Also, they recognized that of the people in that room they had the least chance of getting shot.
“You.” Mrs. Spencer pointed at Pru with the gun. “You, you, and you.” Win, Gads, and Murray. “You stay here.”
“I thought you wanted us to go to Paris?” Win said.
“To you remaining cretins,” she went on, ignoring Win as she loved to do. “Find a place to stay. The Banbury Inn. The Chacombe Motor Hotel. In the bushes, for all I care. Return at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. We’ll sort out everything then. My attorney Gads will supervise the proceedings.”
“I’m not leaving,” the ex-wife said again. “I’m not setting foot off this property until I take possession of my rightful assets.”
“Which are a subset of my rightful assets,” the duke reminded her.
“What assets are you people talking about!” Pru said with uncharacteristic gusto.
Usually, with folks like these, she was content to remain in the background, especially if possible deportation was in the offing.
“Do you people have eyeballs?” Pru asked. “Look around! This place is a dump! No offense, Mrs. Spencer.”
“I’m very offended but am rather enjoying this, so carry on.”
“Don’t you people live in Blenheim? With fountains and grottos?”
“As if anyone cares about this crap house,” the ex-wife said. “We’re here for the art.”
“Art?” Pru said. “What art?”
“You tell her, Peter,” she said to a solicitor. “The art Gladys acquired after she became the duchess is ours. In other words, everything collected in the last forty years.”
“Yes. Well. That’s an argument to make,” this Peter said and then, remembering his audience, added, “and it shan’t be too challenging to prove!”
“These people have the ridiculous notion that I’m sequestering priceless art,” Mrs. Spencer said.
“Don’t let them search your home,” Pru said, at once thinking of the Boldini as well as the Monets and everything else Win saw when he first came through the property. “They have no right. Gads, tell her. She’s not obligated…”
“Sweet girl, it’s fine,” Mrs. Spencer said, smiling prettily. This action was somehow more threatening than if she’d drawn a gun. “They are free to snoop about until their snaky hearts are content. They won’t find a thing.”
Mrs. Spencer gave a wink and that’s when Pru remembered the crates in Paris, piled up in the spare bedroom. No wonder she needed the cane. The old broad was no doubt quite sore from moving things about. Pru smiled in admiration. Mrs. Spencer knew what she was doing. She almost always did.
“Tom will be pleased to show you out,” Mrs. Spencer said, brandishing her weapon once more. “Don’t stall! Unless you want to be shot in the knees!”
After much squalling, the assemblage of nimrods and mutton heads collected itself. Win and Pru watched as Tom frog-marched the crew outside. Gads waved farewell and slammed the door behind them.