The Importance of Being Ernestine (21 page)

“Sorry I'm late, ladies,” she said. “I ran into Mrs. Thatcher outside the corner shop. She was going in to pick up a comic for her son who's home from school with an upset tummy.”

“Thatcher.” Mrs. Malloy sat looking wise beyond her years (which were always open to interpretation). “Now would she be the constable's wife?”

“That's right.” Laureen broke off when the waitress hobbled our way and asked what we would have. Mrs. M. and I settled on sausage, baked beans and chips, that being all that was left on the menu, and a pot of tea to be shared with Laureen who said she didn't have time for anything else. “And anyway I had a slice of toast while getting Mrs. Hasty's lunch. She was in a chatty mood after her nap, and I didn't like to rush away after the shock she's taken. It's a wonder she isn't having nightmares along with Ronald.”

“Ronald?” I wished I could look as intelligent as Mrs. Malloy, who now sat pouring our tea from an earthenware pot almost as big as the table.

“The Thatchers' boy. He's nine-years-old and has proved a bit of a handful, having been one of those change-of-life surprise packages and coming after three model brothers, all of them grown up now and living away from home. But if you ask me he's not a bad kid. He comes over to see Mrs. Hasty quite often. Well, mostly he comes to see the cat.” Laureen smiled, and I decided that, unprofessional though it might be, I liked her, and surely a private detective had to sometimes rely on instinct. “Ronald's desperate for a cat or a dog, but his father says he can't have one until he demonstrates some responsibility and maturity. So I don't give much for his chances at the moment.”

“Why's that?” I asked.

“And what does it have to do with the case?” Mrs. Malloy frowned so severely that the waitress inquired in a trembling voice if the meals she had set down looked all right. It took my raptures over the burnt sausages to get her to hobble away. And then my heart went with her, so that it took me a moment to refocus.

“I'm not sure.” Laureen sat sipping her tea.

“You said that Ronald's been having nightmares,” I said, “and now he's home from school with an upset tummy. I used to get them as a child when I was worried about something.”

“The kid should be worried. He's in big trouble with his dad for throwing a flower pot at Lady Krumley's car the day before yesterday when she was driving past the green.” Laureen looked toward the café window. “There was another boy, a classmate of Ronald's, who was in on it. They were on their school dinner hour, and Constable Thatcher saw what happened and chased them down.”

“Her ladyship mentioned the incident.” I laid down the knife and fork I had just picked up. “It made her late for her appointment. She had to stop at a garage to get her car window temporarily fixed.”

“Mrs. Thatcher said that if her husband had realized Lady Krumley was driving the car he would have checked first to make sure that she was alright before leaving the scene. I imagine,” Laureen shrugged, “that he was in such a temper that he wasn't thinking clearly.”

“Your bringing this up explains something Mrs. Beetle, the cook, had to say when we was talking to her earlier.” Mrs. Malloy had polished off her sausages and chips and most of her baked beans.

“That's right,” I said, “she mentioned that Constable Thatcher hadn't been informed of Vincent Krumley's death when he showed up at Moultty Towers.”

“On the night in question”—Mrs. Malloy reached out a fork to spear one of my sausages—“he got a phone call about it just after he arrived. So something else brought him to the house. Must have been to own up to his son's naughty behavior and find out how her ladyship was doing. Who'd be a parent? Quite makes up me mind for me, I'm not having no more kids.”

Laureen smiled, but I didn't dare.

“Did the boy say why he and his friend threw those flower pots at the car?” I asked Laureen.

“No.”

“And his father, a policeman, can't get it out of him?”

“That's what's got Mrs. Thatcher so worried. Usually Frank's only got to look at the boy to get at the truth. She thinks Ronald's frightened . . . badly frightened. She said it could be of the other boy. He's almost a year older and much bigger than Ronald, and Mrs. Thatcher—as most mothers would—thinks he's the ringleader. But she is also wondering if it has something to do with Vincent Krumley's death.”

“Now, what makes her think that?” Mrs. M. poured more tea.

“It's not just the nightmares. Ronald's been talking in his sleep. Muttering stuff about the old man and the dog.”

“What does his father say?” I asked.

“That he should be having nightmares after what he did.”

“And the other boy isn't talking?”

“Not a word. His parents are saying it was all Ronald's fault, along with Frank's for being too strict.” Laureen spooned sugar into her cup. “I'm afraid those two boys came over to see Mrs. Hasty and the cat, or to play in the copse, and saw something they are now afraid to talk about.”

“Did you say that to Mrs. Thatcher?” I had finished as much as I could of my meal.

“No, she was already upset. And I could be wrong. Maybe the two incidents, Ronald's hooliganism and Mr. Krumley's death, which is of course the talk of the village, get mixed up in his head while he's sleeping. Perhaps he's heard it said that Vincent was a heavy drinker and not much good for anything, and he's scared in case it really is true that people who do bad things come to a bad end.” Laureen pulled a wry face and said that if such were indeed the case she was in deep trouble.

“You've lost me, ducky.” Mrs. Malloy eyed her sternly.

“Sorry. I'm bracing up to getting the topic back to the reason I asked you both to meet me here.” The smile was still in place and included me. “I want to confess.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” Mrs. Malloy opened her handbag with the exaggeratedly casual air of one about to whip out a gun. It was a little disappointing when she produced a tissue instead and dabbed her lips. “And would there be an accomplice involved in this confession? The same person you mentioned as having, along with yourself, made the mistake of thinking Lady Krumley had gone to see a man detective? The world's full of surprises, isn't it? But I don't suppose it'll catch you all that unawares when I tell you that me and Mrs. H. here have been in the business long enough to put two and two together. Oh, yes! Ever so good at our sums, we are. So instead of you confessing, why don't we tell you what we think?”

“Yes, why don't we?” I was all encouragement.

“It's about a man that showed up waving a gun shortly after Lady Krumley left our office.”

“Do continue,” said Laureen.

“Well, like you can imagine,” Mrs. Malloy continued, preening in her most unbecoming way, “the two of us have been in that situation often enough to know when there's something that's not just right. And it seemed to us that on this particular occasion it was what we call a putup job, a sham . . .”

“A charade.” I felt entitled to put in two words, particularly when I was the one who had originally suggested to Mrs. Malloy that there had been something stagey about Have Gun's appearance on the scene. I was silenced with a flick of the eyelashes.

“Playacting, that's what it seemed to us. And this morning you went and let slip that you'd been an actress.”

“I thought I said it straight out.” Laureen bit her lip.

“Very crafty. But I'll give you this, it wasn't you playing the gunman. If you was that good, you'd be world famous. In all likelihood it was some fellow actor, possibly a friend, that like you wanted to make sure her ladyship's talk about Flossie Jones and deathbed curses wouldn't be dismissed as so much nonsense from an old woman.”

“Who do you think that friend would be?” Laureen sipped her tea.

Mrs. Malloy's look dared me to get in ahead of her. “The man that disappointed his dear old uncle by going on the stage. Mr. Featherstone the vicar's nephew, that's who!”

“His name is Tom Stillwaters.”

“Runs deep, does he?”

“He's not much of an actor.”

“But a nice man and you're fond of him.” Mrs. Malloy wiped the smirk off her face. She was always susceptible to the whiff of romance, even when she was not the party involved.

“And he's devoted to Mr. Featherstone.”

“Who in his turn,” I said, “is devoted to Lady Krumley.”

“He's in love with her, always has been. She must be the only one who doesn't seem to know. Never having been a beauty, or even verging on pretty, it probably wouldn't occur to her that any man could live out his life harboring a grand unrequited passion for her—certainly not a clergyman. They're not supposed to be that sort, are they?” Laureen pushed away her teacup. “And from the sound of it, Sir Horace never did much to boost her self-esteem as a woman. Tom overheard his uncle talking to Lady Krumley about her disappointment with a private detective. He was clearly afraid that she was working herself into such a state of agitation over her feelings of guilt toward Flossie that she would have another heart attack. One that might prove fatal. And when I told Mr. Featherstone what I knew about the brooch he became even more concerned. He agreed that someone seemed bent on malicious, wicked mischief. Tom and I knew we had to do something. And the scheme popped into our heads.”

“It was foolish and dangerous.” Mrs. Malloy peeked into her compact mirror and adjusted her hat. “It could have been me and Mrs. H. here that got the heart attacks, if we wasn't the professionals we are. But seeing as how you've tried to be helpful, we'll say all's forgiven and go on from here. If that waitress ever shows up with the bill, that is.”

Taking the hint I reached into my bag for my purse while Mrs. Malloy assured Laureen that there was no need for her to contribute toward the pot of tea, because the meal would go on the expense account. This sounded all well and good until I reminded myself that we wouldn't receive a penny from Lady Krumley until we found Ernestine. Would locating her lead us any closer to the shadowy figure who was responsible for putting her ladyship in a hospital bed?

This topic was the focus of conversation between Mrs. Malloy and me as we drove out of Biddlington-By-Water and took the road to Mucklesby, which was the shortest way back to Chitterton Fells. It was now 2:30 in the afternoon, and I was eager to be home with Ben and the children. I wasn't used to being gone for most of the day. But when I came to Hathaway Road, a street lined with late Victorian houses about a mile from Jugg's Detective Agency, I slowed the car and turned the corner.

“Remember,” I said, “this is where Mrs. Hasty said Flossie had her bed-sitter.”

“Of course I do.” Mrs. M. had her nose pressed to the car window. “Look, there it is. That's the house, number twenty-one. Stop! There's a woman coming out the door.”

“And what's she going to be able to tell us?”

“Probably not much. But it don't hurt to ask, does it?” She was using her wheedling tone, which always reduced me to meekness. But whether or not I was destined for regret on this occasion remained to be seen.

Seventeen

“Can I help you?” The woman walked toward us as we stood hovering by her front gate like a pair of diffident souls expecting to be told by St. Peter that they had come to the wrong place and if we didn't buzz off he would have to summon the man in charge.

“This is a long shot,” I said, smiling into the pleasant friendly face, “but we were wondering if you might happen to know who owned this property forty years ago. You see we're trying to trace someone who lived here back then. I'm not explaining very well. It was only for a short time—a matter of months while she was a baby. Her mother was a young single girl, who died.”

“When the house was broken up into bed-sitters?”

“That's right.” Mrs. Malloy rested her handbag atop the gate.

“And the mother's name?”

“Flossie Jones.” I felt a little bubble of excitement rise in my throat.

“Well, Florence really,” said Mrs. Malloy. “The way we understand it she came here before she had the baby. But of course it's a long time ago and as my colleague here was saying it's a bit much to hope you can help us.”

“How are the two of you involved?”

“We're private detectives. Look, hold on a tick, I'll show you me card.” Mrs. Malloy rummaged inside her handbag. “We'd be standing here all day if we waited for Mrs. H. to find hers. That's teamwork for you. I keep us organized, and she does most of the legwork. Me knees isn't what they once was, you'll be sorry to hear. But I just couldn't abide to sit put at the office for this case, not when we've gone and promised a very ill old lady that we'll find Flossie Jones's daughter for her. You see there's an inheritance involved. And our client won't die easy until everything's settled.” While rattling away Mrs. Malloy had flashed the card, which I knew from its pale lavender color to be her membership card for the Chitterton Fells Charwomen's Association. Fortunately our new acquaintance failed to peruse the fine print. Looking duly impressed she opened the garden gate and beckoned us to come inside.

“A inheritance you say, for that little baby!”

“If we can locate her.” I felt the excitement bubble grow bigger. This woman had information. It might not be much, but anything was better than nothing. Maybe it would turn out that we hadn't done Lady Krumley a major disservice by taking on the case. Maybe in finding Ernestine we could prevent another murder. I reminded myself that we still had a long way to go, but it was difficult not to do a jig on the path.