The Importance of Being Ernestine (28 page)

Not having known Vincent Krumley I didn't have a clue what he would have wanted for his funeral, but I was beginning to wonder if he really had been the doddering old duffer her ladyship had described to Mrs. Malloy and me at the hospital. She had talked about his being muddled in his perceptions. But had he been wrong about Cynthia having been a go-go dancer? And had he said Daisy Meeks had a twin as reported by her ladyship, or that he hoped she didn't have a twin? Words get altered in the recounting. Or elaborated upon.

At the moment when I realized Lady Krumley was soundly asleep Watkins entered the room to inform me that Mrs. Malloy was waiting for me in the hall. After making my farewells to Sir Alfonse and Daisy Meeks, I joined her and made all speed out to the car.

“Well,” I asked as we drove off down the drive, “did you talk to Ronald Thatcher?”

“Didn't I say I would?” She was looking unbearably smug.

“And?”

“And what?”

“Were you able to get anything useful out of him?”

“Enough to make we wonder if we haven't found our murderer. But I wouldn't want to start discussing it today, Mrs. H., if you're not in the mood.” She proceeded to make a production out of going into her bag and taking out a lemon drop. Of course I was consumed with curiosity, but when she added insult to injury I responded in my own mean-spirited way.

“I don't suppose Ronald gave you Ernestine's address?” I deserved to be punished for that, but God is remarkably forgiving. When I got home Ben came out of the study to provide me with a vital piece of information that he'd found on the internet while playing, as he cheerfully told me, on his wonderful new computer.

“That's nice, dear.” I did my wifely best to sound excited.

“I looked to see if the Waysiders had a Web page or whatever it's called, Ellie. And low and behold I came upon the name Ernestine Merryweather. She runs the place. She's the woman who may have frightened Aunt Lulu into going straight rather than be returned to reform school. Of course,” he put his arm around me, “She may not be your Ernestine.”

“She'd jolly well better be,” I said, “or I'll set Pipsie the Maltese terrier on her. That little dog is itching to make someone pay for Vincent Krumley's death. And I would just as soon it wasn't me or Mrs. Malloy.”

Twenty-one

It was the following evening and Mrs. Malloy and I were having a last cup of tea before what we hoped would be the final scene in the melodrama being enacted at Moultty Towers. We were in her tiny kitchen, with its bead curtain screening the washing machine from view. The dangling fringe on the tablecloth and the red shaded lamp always reminded me of a fortuneteller's parlor. Usually I didn't mind the absence of a crystal ball, but at this moment it would have been helpful. We had spent the day getting everything set up and had been fortunate in the cooperation we had received from those we had assigned as stage managers. Mrs. Malloy and I had divided up the workload and were fairly well satisfied that we had everything covered. All-important had been Lady Krumley's eventual willingness to accept our hypothesis, for that's all it was up to this point. The information given to Mrs. Malloy by young Ronald Thatcher had convinced us as to the who, and last night had been spent putting together all those bits and pieces that seemed to provide us with the why. This was still a far cry from hard evidence, leaving us dependent on squeezing out a confession. That's where the difficulty had been with her ladyship. It had been necessary to convince her that the dark forces she had talked about so often were clothed in human flesh. Not being confident that Mrs. Malloy or I would be able to bring her over to this way of thinking, I had telephoned Mr. Featherstone and enlisted his help. He promised, with his old world courtesy, to do his best. Within two hours he rang back to say that Lady Krumley had responded to the effect that there was no point in hiring a pair of private detectives and barking oneself. He wasn't certain that she had given up on Flossie's deathbed curse, but we had her agreement to stage our scene in the drawing room at Moultty Towers at 8:00 that evening.

“Very kind of the reverend to pitch in.” Mrs. Malloy stirred her tea. She looked very much the fortuneteller in her black taffeta dress with the jet beading. The silk turban perched on her blonde curls heightened the impression. “But then he, being a man in love, was ready and eager to help. It was different with Constable Thatcher. I had to exercise all the force of me personality to bring him into line. But after I mentioned what a shame it would be if Lady Krumley pressed charges against his Ronald and the other boy for throwing them flower pots, he came round very nicely. Course, Mrs. H., I'm not saying I had him a hundred percent convinced his son had spotted a murderer laying the groundwork, so to speak. But my guess is there's now this question mark in his mind. Would be nice if it'd light up and flash and go Bing! Bing! every so often, but medical science hasn't progressed that far. They're too busy cloning sheep and other such silliness.”

“You gave Constable Thatcher his instructions?”

“Told him and then wrote them down, so's there'll be no mistakes. He's to position himself outside the drawing room after everyone troops in. And right before we gets started the vicar will sidle over to the door and open it a crack, like to see if there's anyone outside, and then not close it properly, so Constable Thatcher can hear what's going on and write things down in his little book if he fancies. Men!” She smiled indulgently. “They do like to make themselves feel important. Well, if it keeps them happy, why not? There was you all stirred up thinking Mr. H. would leave you after your redecorating and updating. Now he's like a kiddie with a new toy. Can't tear himself away from his computer now.”

I was rubbing at a drop of tea that had landed on my sage green sweater. “I know, we were completely at cross purposes. I thought he was still angry with me for getting rid of his old typewriter. Instead he was feeling guilty about having made such a fuss because within minutes of turning on the computer he was hooked and feeling even guiltier about all the time he was spending on it. He told me he loves the study the way it's redecorated; it gives him more room, and more storage. It's as though he finally has his very own space instead of being shut up in the cupboard under the stairs.”

“Surprises me you didn't give his head the back side of a frying pan.” Mrs. Malloy eyed the cookoo clock that wasn't known of its truthfulness. She must have decided it was fast this time rather than slow, because she not only settled back into her chair but also poured herself another cup of tea.

“Who could have guessed that my shipping those items off to Kathleen Ambleforth's charity drive would have this much impact?” I had succeeded in making the tea spot worse. “But for my row with Ben I wouldn't have turned out that night to meet you at Jugg's.”

“Thanks ever so!”

“I wouldn't have been so depressed that I smoked and got sick drinking that whisky, which was why I got talked into working with you on this case. And if I hadn't been so desperate to get the items back I wouldn't have pestered Kathleen for the name of the organization where they had been sent. She wouldn't have finally told me it was The Waysiders, right before Aunt Lulu showed up with her horror stories about her stay there, making for such a coincidence that my harping on about it got the name stuck in Ben's head. So that's when he was next at the computer . . .”

“And don't let's forget me finding that address card in Vincent Krumley's wallet that lets us know he was also familiar with The Waysiders.” Mrs. Malloy yawned behind a heavily ringed hand. “So don't go letting Mr. H. get too chuffed, or he'll be expecting a cut of that five thousand pounds. And you know what that'll mean. He'll be buying himself a laptop, so he can take it to bed with him and there goes your marriage. I tell you what,” Mrs. Malloy said, adding a drop more tea to my cup, “I'll send Mr. H. a nice thank you card, and you can do likewise for the Reverend Featherstone who's been more than good handling things with Lady Krumley and Ernestine too. A busy day for a man of his age having to go here, there and the other. If her ladyship don't appreciate him after this she never will. And either you can get a divorce and marry him or I'll do it. Come to think of it that might be a little more special than a card.” Mrs. Malloy made a production of getting to her feet and again looking at the clock. “You did say you talked to Laureen?”

“Yes, just as we discussed.”

“Never a dull moment in this business.” Her face sobered. “It'll be a bit of a letdown when it's over.”

“Let's hope we're around to enjoy it.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“We can't be absolutely sure that things won't get out of hand. Constable Thatcher could doze off clutching the doorknob. And our murderer may not take kindly to be brought out into the open. Naturally I didn't plant that little seed in Ben's mind. I assured him that you and I were safe as houses.”

“How many policemen did you tell him there was going to be on hand?”

“A few.”

Mrs. M. was flapping powder onto her nose with a large puff. “I'm shocked, that's what I am! Telling lies to your very own husband.”

“Only a white . . . well, maybe a gray one. For all I know Constable Thatcher could be a very large man, the size of at least three regular-sized ones.”

“He's nothing of the sort, he's built just nice. Quite a pleasant jolly sort of chap for all we've heard of him being so strict with young Ronald. He asked me if I'd ever thought of going into the police force. There was quite a meaningful look in his eyes when he said it.”

“He wasn't suggesting that with you being such a whiz at solving murders you should be well up the chain of command by now?” Mrs. Malloy did not dignify this with a response. I followed her into the hall where we got into our coats, picked up our handbags and went out the door into the mildest evening we'd had in weeks.

The drive to Biddlington-By-Water seemed shorter because it was now so familiar. We didn't talk for several miles or rather I should say neither of us said a word out loud. I was reciting my lines for the upcoming production inside my head. And Mrs. Malloy, from the way she was moving her lips and her frequent frowns, appeared to be doing the same thing. But after a while I reverted to thinking about the problems ahead. It was all very well for Mrs. Malloy and me to be conducting dress rehearsals whenever we could spare time during the day. It was hardly surprising that each of the players did and said exactly as wished when we were playing all the parts. The reality was unlikely to go as smoothly. And in the end would it all be for naught? Mrs. Malloy's thoughts were flowing right along with mine.

“Here's me fretting that it won't be a legal confession, no matter how many people hear the bugger say it. Not with all this silly business of the courts insisting that criminals be read their rights first or it all goes out the ruddy window. But what if we don't get nowhere at all? What if there's no voice piping in with, ‘It was me! I know it's not right to go around scaring old ladies out of their wits and murdering people, but a little dickie bird told me to do it'?”

“We'll still have accomplished something, Mrs. Malloy. The scheme will have been exposed. That should put a damper on things and provide the Krumley family with some security. An admittance would be nice because then we'd know with certainty that we were right and so would the others. But we're just going to have to take what we can get.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“We're together in this.” I turned and smiled at her, and she snuffled into a hanky.

“I guess I've just got a touch of stage fright. Me knees is knocking. It was the same way when I was in that play at the church hall.”

“On that occasion you made the mistake of trying to bolster up your courage with a stiff bottle of gin. This time you stuck to tea.”

We had now reached Biddlington-By-Water, which looked charmingly Dickensian in the glow of its streetlights and utterly incapable of harboring a jaywalker let alone a murderer in its midst. But soon Moultty Towers, looming before us and in the dark stillness of an almost moonless night, gave off the aura of a place where one might likely spot a discreetly placed sign indicating that “Doctor Crippen Slept Here.” After parking under a skeletal tree, I gripped Mrs. Malloy's arm, half hoping in cowardly fashion that one of us would slip, spraining an ankle that would demand immediate medical attention. But there was to be no escaping the business at hand.

We were admitted to the house by Watkins, who removed our coats before leading us in his stately way into the drawing room, where we found Lady Krumley enthroned on a high-backed chair in the midst of her family members. The mantelpiece clock gave eight tinkling chimes as Sir Ambrose Krumley and Niles Edmonds rose to acknowledge our entry. There was some murmuring and an inclining of heads, but it was rather like birds fluttering and twittering overhead, something that required a minimal input and response. Cynthia sat, looking glamorous, ill-tempered and with no visible signs of her riding accident, several chairs away from her husband who appeared transfixed. His spectacles somehow seemed more real than the rest of him. Sir Alfonse wore a pale blue suit this evening and a pink and lavender bow tie. They dramatized the appeal—if one were inclined to be enamored to that type of man, which he clearly was—of his portly figure, glossy black curls and swirling moustache. Daisy Meeks, dumpy and dowdy, was the only one whose voice carried above the rest.

“The egg custard we had for a sweet was very tasty. Mrs. Beetle called it a crème caramel. I always put a little lemon rind in mine.” No one paid her any attention, perhaps because at that moment Mr. Featherstone walked into the room.