Gertrude, or, Girls Are Rum

Hello, and welcome to my 2025 Blogging From A To Z April Challenge! This year, I’ve written you a complete murder mystery novelette. The setting is rural England, a few years after WWI. The extra challenge that I set myself for this story is that the first murder will not take place until the letter “M”–halfway through! And the second murder will happen at “S.” There may be murders after “S,” of course, but they are less structural or foundational or something.

And now, without further ado…

Gertrude, or, Girls Are Rum

Girls, reflected Reggie sourly, were rum. Take Geraldine. Seemed a nice little thing, and mild as milk in a general way. Eager to please. All that. But the moment Mina came up in conversation—whoosh! She went up like a rocket. Took him twenty solid minutes to talk the ring back on her finger—she’d talked of “thwowing it in the pond,” just as if rings didn’t cost money.

Or take Mina herself. Dashed attractive, of course, but she herself had told him it wouldn’t work. “You’ll want a nice young girl who can give you heirs,” she’d said. And she was right. Reggie took his responsibilities as heir to the estate very seriously. But if she knew it wouldn’t work, and told him it wouldn’t work, why did she act so bally possessive and wounded and all that? Rum.

And then there was Penny, his naïve little cousin from America. He’d expected her to be charmed by his grace and atmosphere of an older tradition and all that twaddle. But she hadn’t even noticed it.

Reggie brooded further on Penny. First, she’d landed Reggie in the soup with her confiding prattle about Mina. Then, when he’d come back to the tea-table, he’d found her laughing at some weird remark of Dr. Camphor’s, looking pleased with life and not at all sorry for the trouble she’d caused him. And then, when he’d said he’d better escort her back to the Manor, she’d coolly informed him that Camphor was proposing to take her for a drive in his old rattle-trap car—and that, if they didn’t have a break-down, she’d be back by dinner. He’d walked back to the Manor with old Stephen, who was about as stimulating a companion as usual—absolute wet fish.

But what he meant to say was—Penny was also rum. Why choose to go driving round with a boring old GP (“four years younger than you,” an honest part of his mind reminded him) when you could walk round with the charming heir? Oh hell. Girls were rum, and that was all there was to it. As he often did when he was upset, he went to call on his Aunt Gertrude.

“Funny, that,” he reflected as he climbed the stairwell, and turned to the wing where the ladies of the house resided. “Everyone seems to think that Aunt Gert’s a stiff old stick—but she’s jolly decent, really. An antidote to the rumminess of girls.” He knocked at the door to her sitting-room.

“Come!” said Aunt Gert’s voice from within. Reggie entered.

“I say, Aunt Gert, the—” and then he stopped. Aunt was in her usual high-backed chair by the fireplace. But she was not alone. Uncle Jack was sitting in Reggie’s usual spot. “Oh, I say! I didn’t know you had company.” And Reggie began to withdraw.

“Nonsense, my boy!” said Jack, standing up. “We were just reminiscing about old times—and I promised to look in on Frank before dinner, so I’d best be going.” And with that, he was gone.

“Hallo, old thing—hope I didn’t come at an awkward moment,” said Reggie, inspecting his aunt’s face closely.

“No, Reggie dear—you’re always welcome here, you know that. Sit down.”

Reggie sat. “What were you and Uncle Jack talking about?”

“Oh, we hadn’t really said much yet. I did want to touch on this ridiculous idea that Penelope should inherit all of his money over the heads of his actual family, but it isn’t exactly easy to start that kind of conversation.”

“She is his daughter,” said Reggie.

“So we’re told. We know nothing about her—or her so-called mother.”

“She must have had a mother,” said Reggie.

“Must she?” Now Aunt Gert sounded decidedly frosty.

“Everyone does.”

“In terms of gross biology, certainly. But we have no idea whether or not Miss Grimsby’s mother was a lady—or whether she was even married to Jack at all. We don’t even know for certain that Jack is her father. Who knows how women conduct themselves over there? It is probably all a mistake—or a straight imposture. I feel it in my bones—there’s something wrong there!”

“But—my dear aunt—Penelope rather looks like Uncle Jack. Has his chin. And the nose is very much a family nose. Why, I have it myself.”

“Possibly the imposture depended on some such superficial resemblances for its success. And even if she is his daughter, I don’t see why she should come in for anything much. A daughter isn’t a son, when all’s said and done.”

“But as he has no son—”

“Yes, of course.” And she smiled at his expression. “There, now! I’m all right, really. It’s just Jack’s visit. It has flustered me. Reminded me of things I haven’t thought of for years. Now—tell me about your day.”

“Well, I took Penny about a bit. Jolly pretty girl, you know.”

Aunt Gert’s face hardened. “She won’t do as a wife for you,” she said. “We know too little about her.”

“But—my dear aunt—she’s a perfect lady, if that’s what you mean,” said Reggie, mentally noting that it wasn’t just girls who were rum—aunts, too, could be noticeably rum themselves. Perhaps it was just a rum sort of day. Reggie had a sudden urge to get into bed, pull the covers over his head, and wait for it to be over. “But you needn’t worry about me marrying her,” he said, sulkily. “She is much more likely to marry Dr. Camphor.”

Aunt Gert nodded. “A widowed professional man,” she said approvingly. “Much more suitable.”

“My good aunt, I don’t for a moment think they actually will marry!” exclaimed Reggie. “It is just that he seems to have the girl fascinated. They went off driving together, that’s all.”

“In my day, that would practically constitute an engagement,” said Aunt Gert.

“Well, very probably so would my stroll around the village with her,” said Reggie. “We were unchaperoned.”

“Not in the case of a close relative,” said Gert.

“Not so very close,” said Reggie. “First cousins.”

Gert nodded. “So you are. But of course Dr. Camphor is a very attractive man.”

Reggie laughed. “That old duffer!” he said.

“You don’t see him from the feminine perspective, Reggie dear. He’s very clever, with a good profile, and a figure he hasn’t allowed to go to seed. There is the unfortunate fact of his beard, of course, but that would be the first thing a wife would alter about him. He did not wear one during his first marriage. And he has a fine crop of dark hair, with just a touch of gray at the temples. Yes, I expect Miss Grimsby is quite intrigued.”

For Reggie, whose own hair was thinning on top, this was a bit too thick. “But he’s not in the least—he has no—It,” he sputtered helplessly.

“He’s amusing, though,” said Gert. “That’s probably enough. Why Reggie—where are you going?”

“Back to bed!” said Reggie, and dashed out of the room.