The Importance of Being Ernestine (24 page)

“What are you thinking about?” He drew me into his arms and kissed me in full view of the twin suits of armor. It was a wonderful kiss, both tender and passionate, and when I opened my eyes and looked into his I saw the promise of even better things to come. It was going to be one of those times for my sea green nightgown with its lovely foaming of lace, and that bottle of wickedly expensive perfume that was hidden away in the box where I kept the first letter he had ever written me, the first rose, the first wrapper from the first bar of chocolate . . .

“I'm thinking about what you're thinking about.” I rested my cheek against his neck. “But Freddy's here.”

“He went back to the cottage.”

“Was he still feeling down?”

“He didn't look very chipper.”

I sighed. “Poor, dear Freddy. But this does give me a chance to talk to you about what Mrs. Malloy and I have been up to.” I drew him into the drawing room, switched on the lights and settled beside him on one of the matching ivory brocade sofas.

“You sound as though you don't expect me to approve.” He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me, gently this time.

“That's because I don't fully approve myself, but somehow we got caught up in it.” I could hear myself stammering. “It began the night of our quarrel, and I couldn't seem to find my way to talk to you about it.” I floundered on, aware that it all sounded highly colored and more than a little preposterous. He stopped me now and then to ask a question, but his black eyebrows did not descend over his nose as they were wont to do when he was outraged. Neither did he blanch nor catch me in a vicelike hold, saying he would never let me out of his sight again for fear that the dark forces of evil that had descended upon Moultty Towers would claim me for their next victim. Indeed, I thought there were a few times when he was stoically restraining a laugh.

“So what do you think?” I asked at last.

“That it sounds as though you and Mrs. Malloy are having the time of your lives.”

“There's no need to pat my head like I'm a child of six.” I inched away from him and sat hugging a cushion.

“I'm not doing anything of the sort.” A mendacious statement if ever there was one. “Why shouldn't you enjoy yourselves? You're attempting to provide ease of mind to a troubled old woman and from the sound of it you'll probably succeed. You'll tell her how to get in touch with Ernestine and leave it up to the two of them to sort out their past history.”

“But what about the murder?”

“What murder?”

“Ben, haven't you been listening? Vincent Krumley. Remember him?”

“Sweetheart.” His lips were twitching. “You said yourself that the man was ninety-years-old. I don't expect to be too steady on my feet at that age. You don't believe those other relatives of Lady What's-Her-Name were all deliberately done away with, do you?”

“No, but they may have put ideas into someone's head.”

“And you don't believe in deathbed curses?”

“Possibly not. But what about all those other things I told you about?”

“Such as?”

“Why did Constable Thatcher's son Ronald throw those flower pots at Lady Krumley's car? And why is he now having nightmares that seem connected with Vincent Krumley's death? I get the feeling that could provide a vital piece of the puzzle. And at the back of everything—first and last—there's the emerald brooch.”

“You're taking a lot of what that woman, the lady's maid Laureen, had to say for granted.”

“Why would she lie?”

“To cause trouble. To make herself feel important. All sorts of reasons. Or she could merely have been mistaken about when the brooch was there and when it wasn't. Ellie,” he removed the cushion from my clutches and tossed it onto a chair, “do your good deed. Find Ernestine. Hope that Lady Krumley wills her an enormous fortune, so she never has to work another day in her life. And then leave the inhabitants of Moultty Towers to fend for themselves.”

“So you're not the least bit worried that I'm walking into danger?” I sounded like Abbey at her poutiest.

“You are at this moment in very great danger”—Ben lowered his face to mine, his blue green eyes taking on unfathomable depths as he drew me close—“of being kissed back to your senses.”

“Then you don't think it bothersome that Mrs. Malloy and I overheard Cynthia Edmonds demanding blackmail money from someone?”

“You could have misheard. The door was closed. Or such may be her usual method of getting extra cash out of her husband, threatening to tell Auntie that he hasn't been a good boy.” Ben sat back with pained resignation. “Possibly this time he had done something really naughty, like buying himself a new train set.”

“We can't assume it was Niles Edmonds in there with her. When Mrs. Malloy and I went up to the attics he was in the drawing room with the newly arrived Sir Alfonse Krumley. It could have been anyone in that bedroom with Cynthia. Including,” I grabbed another cushion, “Daisy Meeks?”

“Who's she?”

“The woman who came into the room after the bird incident. Some sort of cousin.”

“You think she was checking to see how badly you had been scared?”

“She seemed a dim bulb, but that could be an act.”

“Shall we make her the prime suspect?”

I caught Ben's laughing gaze and tossed the cushion at him. Why couldn't he take me seriously? Wasn't it clear that Vincent Krumley had been murdered because he somehow posed a danger to the plot afoot, just as Cynthia Edmonds knew something best kept under wraps . . . unless she had taken precautions to protect herself? But what was at the back of it all? Revenge? Hate? Love? Greed? All classic motives and surely—I sat up straighter on the sofa—all applicable in this case. Revenge and hatred born of the injustices done to Flossie Jones. . . . A mother's love denied, and greed for what might be deemed one's rightful inheritance as the unacknowledged daughter of Sir Horace Krumley? Who else but Ernestine herself? Not some shadowy figure, but a woman who had made herself a diabolical presence in the ancestral home. Someone I had already met . . . talked with . . . thought not only harmless but also rather nice?

The doorbell interrupted my racing thoughts. By the time I had pried myself off the sofa, Ben had gone to answer it. I heard the murmur of a woman's voice. Mrs. Malloy, I wondered, come post haste with some vital piece of new information? Wrong. It was Freddy's mother, Aunt Lulu, who proceeded Ben into the room. My enormous relief at seeing her was mitigated by her woebegone face and unsteady gait, the more pitiful because she usually resembled a grown-up Shirley Temple, all dimples and curls.

“Hello, Ellie,” she mustered the weakest of smiles, as I settled her into the nearest chair. “I've run away from that awful place.”

“What place, Aunt Lulu?” I asked, as Ben pressed a glass of brandy into her trembling hand.

“One of those rehabilitation ones. I went in voluntarily. I thought it might make for a bit of a change.” She sipped her brandy. “You often meet such interesting people at these places. But the most depressingly dedicated woman ran this one like a reform school. And every single person there wanted to be helped. Well, of course so did I, but not all at once or quite so thoroughly. I tried to escape from my third floor window. There was the nicest oak tree right outside, but some horrible do-gooder dragged me back in. After that I was watched all the time. It wasn't until this morning that I was able to get away after managing to sound the fire alarm. That created just enough chaos to give me a headstart down the drive to the road, where I hitchhiked a lift to the closest town from a passing lorry driver. And I've been thumbing my way here ever since.”

“What's the name of this place?” Ben asked.

“The Waysiders. It's not a religious based setup, but I suppose it comes from the Bible, rescuing those that fall by the wayside.”

“Freddy thought it was a pub,” I said.

Aunt Lulu was beginning to revive, and the dimples appeared in her cheeks when she smiled. “My son's not just a pretty face. He must have been thinking of ‘Tales from a Wayside Inn'.”

“Yes, now I think about it he did say something about Longfellow the other day.” My voice was drowned out by Freddy's eruption into the room from the hall. While he and his mother were falling into each other's arms Ben was filling another brandy glass. I reached into my skirt pocket to pull out the piece of paper on which I had written the address and phone number of the charitable organization where Kathleen Ambleforth's cousin Alice had dispatched the items from Ben's study.

It was as I thought. They had gone to The Waysiders, 109 Bottlecreek Road, Battersea. Looking at Aunt Lulu's now beaming face as Freddy set her back on her feet after a prolonged hug, I decided it might be best not to mention my connection to her when I telephoned to plead my case.

Nineteen

“I do wish you'd make up your ruddy mind.” Mrs. Malloy had replenished her handbag with another bag of lemon drops and was sucking fiercely away as we drove through a green light that shone palely through the mist. “This morning it's Ernestine that's the villain of the piece. And that's after you saying the other day Lady Krumley could be telling fibs about her reasons for wanting to find the poor unsuspecting woman—to say she's sorry and wants to leave her gobs of money in her will. When,” she continued, cheek bulging, “what she was really after was to get Ernestine out of the picture for good and all, for reasons that aren't nearly so nice.”

“For all we know that may still be the case,” I replied soothingly. “I merely suggested we look at the situation from the opposing angle. We've taken her ladyship's word that she, not Sir Horace, was the one who brought the money into the marriage. But what if she's lying about that? Or she signed her fortune over to him at some point in their marriage?”

“So that she gets to live on the income but hasn't a dickie bird to say about who gets what when she kicks the bucket.” Mrs. Malloy shook her head at the vagaries of life.

“Meaning,” I replied, turning on the car lights as the mist briefly thickened to fog, “Sir Horace could have left a will making Ernestine the major beneficiary, under certain circumstances, such as if other family members had died off first.”

“He could even have put her ahead of some on the list. Daddies can be quite soppy about their little girls.” Mrs. Malloy rustled into the bag for another lemon drop. “Me own father couldn't bear to deny me nothing. Called me his Little Twinkle Toes, he did. Course Mum had to go and say that was because he couldn't never remember me name. And, to be fair, he was like Sir Horace, not rushing to accept his responsibilities at the beginning. Then again, knowing Mum, he couldn't be blamed for not being quite sure, not until anyone with eyes in their head could see I was his spitting image. Ooh, but he was a handsome man, me Dad!”

I waited until the count of ten to make sure she was finished before picking up the threads of how Sir Horace might have left things in his will. “Supposing Niles Edmonds, of whom Lady Krumley appears to be fond, would only come into a fortune if Ernestine predeceased him? That would provide her ladyship with an incentive for finding her husband's love child and making sure she comes to grief.”

“Well, there you are, then Mrs. H.” Mrs. Malloy shook her fist out the window at a cyclist who was weaving along side of us. “You've gone and talked yourself right round. And a good thing too, because I don't think it right trying to make poor little Ernestine into a murderess after all she's been through. Besides, I've quite set me heart on it being that Cynthia—a right nasty piece if ever there was one, ranting on about the hairdresser messing up her new do, and not a word about how nice I looked in my hat. I'd feel quite sorry for her husband if he wasn't such a weasel. Last night I got to thinking, as I laid in bed drinking me gin and tonic, that it was most likely him we heard her talking to in the bedroom. But not being one to think meself the big know-it-all, I'm quite prepared to try and see things your way.”

“About what?”

“Lady Krumley playing us for fools.” Mrs. M. shook her head. Today she was wearing a cherry red hat and her fake leopard coat. “It could've been her Cynthia was talking to on the telephone, letting her know what she'd seen.”

“Her ladyship dropping Vincent down the well before setting off in the car for Mucklesby?” I slowed for a stop sign.

“It would explain the flower pots, wouldn't it?” Mrs. Malloy sucked on another lemon drop. “Those two boys—Ronald Thatcher and his little mate—saw what happened and being frightened, ran off, is my guess, but when the car drove past them they went into a rage.”

“Surely if they'd witnessed the murder they would have run and reported it to Ronald's father or the first person they saw. There might even have been a chance of getting to Vincent Krumley while he was still alive.”

“They're kiddies. They panicked, wasn't thinking straight. And now Ronald's having them nightmares thinking about what he should have done. But afraid to speak out for fear of being blamed.”

“Isn't it more likely that they saw something that upset them, without their realizing its full significance until later, when word spread about the purported accident?” I drove cautiously past a car that was crawling along in the mist.

“Have to nitpick don't you?” Mrs. M. folded her gloved hands over her handbag. “What we needs to do is talk to them two boys. As quick as possible too. Because the way things stand, I wouldn't place any bets on Cynthia keeping her next appointment for a wash and set. Now you could say, Mrs. H., as that would be doing the chap that fixes her hair a favor, but we can't go getting too softhearted. We've just got to swallow our feelings and do our professional best to keep the woman from getting herself murdered.”