The Importance of Being Ernestine

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Sometimes asking a few questions of the right person helps speed up the process.” If my response sounded a bit lame to my ears it did not appear to strike Mrs. Hasty as such. Her face creased into a beaming smile, and she said that if this wasn’t a day brightener she didn’t know what was. At her age it was nice to have a chance to chat about the old days.

  “Now what did you ladies say your names was?”

  Mrs. Malloy and I duly introduced ourselves and upon her urging sat down in easy chairs across from her. Still looking somewhat dubious Laureen Phillips announced that she would go upstairs and do a little straightening up before returning to the main house.

  “A nice girl. Don’t know why she isn’t off working in some office.” Mrs. Hasty sat stroking the cat after the door closed. “There’s not that many that wants to go into service these days. Even in my young days it wasn’t most people’s first choice. But it was different for me. I grew up in the village. And I didn’t see much sense in shelling out bus fare and cutting an hour at least out of me day going back and forth to Mucklesby or some other town to stand on my feet in a shop. Not when I could walk to Moultty Towers in five minutes and end up with same amount of money in me pocket at the end of the week? And, as me old Mum always used to say, there’s never been no shame in housework.”

  “Truer words was never spoken,” Mrs. Malloy said with the vehemence befitting the chairwoman of the Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association, but caught herself to add craftily, “Lady Krumley gave us to understand that you started work at the house as the parlour maid.”

  “Not me, ducks.” Mrs. Hasty shook her head. “I was the kitchen maid.”

  “That’s right,” I hesitated, suddenly feeling a strong distaste at the idea of leading this nice old lady down the garden path. This was different from spinning a web of deceit to elicit information from Niles and Cynthia Edmonds, or even Mrs. Beetle. This pansy-faced old lady could be somebody’s grandmother. It didn’t much help telling myself that the end justified the means, but I forced myself to continue: “I remember Lady Krumley mentioning another girl… someone named Flossie… I think that was it.”

  “That’s right! Flossie Jones! It was her that was the parlour maid.” Mrs. Hasty beamed a smile. “One of you nice ladies wouldn’t happen to have a sweet on you, would you now? Ever such a sweet tooth I’ve got. Not so much for chocolates, but those nice old-fashioned boiled ones.”

  “As a matter of fact, you’re in luck.” Mrs. Malloy reached into her handbag and produced with a conjuror’s flourish the lemon drops she had been dipping into in the car. Teetering onto her high heels, she handed the bag to the old lady, who rummaged around inside before popping one into her mouth. The rustle of paper had disturbed the cat; it sat up to stretch and yawn in a hard-done-by sort of way, before settling back down on her crocheted lap rug. There was a 1940s-style clock on a curio cabinet, and Mrs. Hasty sat sucking contentedly away in time to its rhythmic ticktock. Mrs. Malloy returning to her chair, crossed and recrossed her legs, her false eyelashes flickering with impatience, but I felt it would be a mistake to try and hurry things. Mrs. Hasty helped herself to another sweet before picking up the threads of our conversation.

  “Flossie came to work at Moultty Towers shortly before I got married. I was coming up for thirty and she’d have been about twenty-five. It surprised me that she didn’t have a ring on her finger, her being as pretty as a picture. But she’d laugh and say she was waiting for a man with one hand on his wallet and one foot in the grave. Always one for a quick answer, was Flossie.”

  “And does she still live in the area?” I asked, feeling like the worst kind of slippery slug.

  Mrs. Hasty shook her head.

  “Oh, what a shame!” Mrs. Malloy sounded convincingly downcast. “Here was us hoping that if you don’t know what happened to them pieces of furniture Lady Krumley’s so worked up about, this other woman might just possibly have helped us out.”

  “Flossie Jones.” Mrs. Hasty sucked away on her lemon drop. “I hadn’t went and thought about her in years.”

  “One loses touch.” I wondered if I sounded uncomfortable or completely vacuous, and, ignoring Mrs. Malloy’s irritated expression, ploughed into a description of the imaginary pieces of furniture that we were supposedly anxious to locate. But my partner need not have got her knickers in a twist. Mrs. Hasty was clearly eager to stick to the subject of her former coworker.

  “Died donkey’s years ago, did poor Flossie.”

  “You don’t say!” Mrs. Malloy studied the rings flashing on both her hands. “And her name cropping up over and over again when we saw Lady Krumley in the hospital.”

  “It really wasn’t the time or place to talk about the redecorating.” I could at least say this with some conviction. “But her ladyship had telephoned to insist on the consultation. It isn’t surprising if her mind wandered, causing her to ramble from time to time during our conversation.”

  “But why have this Flossie Jones on her mind?” Mrs. Malloy’s innocent expression merited an Academy Award.

  “There was something about a brooch,” I paused, feeling more treacherous by the moment, and heard a creak outside in the hall. Was Laureen listening at the door? Or was someone else in the cottage? I told myself that I was being silly, that old houses talked to themselves all the time. But even so I shivered at the thought that someone-someone who had already committed murder-was not convinced that Mrs. Malloy and I were who we claimed to be.

  Luckily it did not appear that Mrs. Hasty had a suspicious nature. “I’m not surprised Lady Krumley had that brooch on her mind. You see it showed up again a few days ago, near on forty years after it went missing. It was Laureen that found it, stuck behind the skirting board in her ladyship’s room.”

  “What a nice surprise!” Mrs. Malloy echoed my exclamation.

  “Well in one way it was and in another it wasn’t.” Mrs. Hasty was sucking on another lemon drop. “Nice for her ladyship to have it back in the family, but too late for her to put matters right with poor Flossie, who she dismissed for stealing it! And her dying like that not long afterward, it doesn’t bear thinking about. No wonder her ladyship had that heart attack and went off the road in her car. She must be blaming herself something awful. Although if you ask me it was that snake in the grass Mrs. Snow that fueled the fire! Had it in for Flossie from the word go, she did.”

  “Mrs. Snow?” I sat listening for further sounds out in the hall, but heard nothing.

  “Her that was the housekeeper back in them days.” Mrs. Hasty stroked the cat. “A big bustling figure of a woman, she was, all got up in black. How she ever got a man to marry her I don’t know! If there ever was a Mr. Snow, I never heard mention of him. It was her nephew she would go on about: Arthur or Archibald-something like that-away at some boarding school she was paying for. I remember feeling sorry for the lad, thinking about what he’d have to give in return over the years. But it did get sickening listening to how clever he was, doing sums a page long. Flossie and me, we’d have a bit of a snicker about it. Mrs. Snow did that, brought out the worst in you. And she got to Lady Krumley with her nasty insinuations, made her suspicious of Flossie about… this, that and the other.” Mrs. Hasty sighed. Some of the sparkle had gone out of her blue eyes.

  “Before the brooch went missing?” I prompted.

  “Flossie had a way with men. And it wasn’t just her looks. She knew just how to wrap them around her finger. All sugar and spice if you know what I mean. Ernest, the under gardener, was crazy for her. Thought she was going to marry him. I tried to tell him not to take her too serious. That for all her flirty ways the girl had a head on her shoulders and wouldn’t settle down until she was ready, not if she hadn’t done so till now. But of course he didn’t listen. Not to me, or to Mrs. Snow, saying that there was bigger fish in the sea and Flossie was a girl out for the main chance.”

  “Eaten up with spite, some people!” Mrs. Malloy with her saintly expression and hat on looked a
s though she should be seated in church.

  “Course I really shouldn’t be sitting here gossiping.” Mrs. Hasty displayed less conviction than Mrs. Beetle had done, as she continued to stroke the cat.

  “Don’t think of it that way. In our business it helps to get a sense of the personalities that have left their imprint on a house.” I spouted this hogwash while again listening for further movement out in the hall. This time I was sure I heard a tiptoed step. My hands clammily gripped the arms of my chair.

  “It’s got to be said that Sir Horace-Lady Krumley’s late husband that is-had taken a fancy to Flossie. But that’s not to say there was any funny business going on. And when she let on she was in the family way I never thought about anyone but Ernest being the father. And he wasn’t slow at owning up to it.”

  “But Mrs. Snow…?” I queried softly.

  “Went around hinting at things and giving those sly looks of hers. Oh, I did feel sorry for Lady Krumley, because when someone plants the seed of suspicion, it’s hard to get rid of it, isn’t it? So when she couldn’t find that brooch, well, who could blame a wife-ladyship or not-from seizing the opportunity to get rid of a pretty young woman that she’d been made to believe was a threat to her marriage? Mrs. Snow told Lady Krumley she’d seen Flossie coming out of that room where she’d no business being, so it did look suspicious. And when she wouldn’t explain what she was doing there,” Mrs. Hasty looked momentarily doubtful, but concluded stoutly, “I expect her pride was up at the injustice of it all.”

  “Sad the way some people treat their household help.” Mrs. M. cast a meaningful look my way. “Sent packing on the spot, was she?”

  “Out the door in half an hour, she was.” Mrs. Hasty sucked hard on another lemon drop.

  “Did she and Ernest marry?” I could have done with a sweet myself.

  “No, ducks. Maybe all the upset turned her a bit funny. She wouldn’t have none of him. Fair broke him up, it did. He stayed on for several months… close on a year from what I remember, but his work suffered. Too much time spent down the pub, and in the end he was let go too. I’ve always hoped he got himself sorted out in time and met some other girl that was fond of him, for he weren’t a bad-looking lad. Tallish, with the most wonderful head of auburn curls that’s I’ve ever seen on a man. My husband was always a bit thin on top, bless him.”

  “Was he also employed at Moultty Towers?” I was genuinely interested.

  “No, Mr. Hasty was the milkman. And although he made a good living he was agreeable to me continuing working, seeing we wasn’t blessed with little ones. When Mrs. Snow finally retired I took over from her. Mr. Hasty’s been gone ten years now, but her ladyship let me have this cottage, and I still manage to get out and about a bit. So all in all it’s not been a bad life.”

  “What happened to poor little Flossie?” Mrs. Malloy displayed eagerness to get the conversation back where it belonged, and I couldn’t blame her. We had been sitting with Mrs. Hasty for close on an hour, and Laureen was liable to stick her head in the door at any minute to be told by the elderly lady that we hadn’t yet got round to talking about specific pieces of furniture.

  “Flossie?” Mrs. Hasty was beginning to sound sleepy. “Went to live in a bed-sitter. In Mucklesby. Twenty-one Hathaway Road was the number.”

  “My, you’ve got a good memory.” Mrs. Malloy inclined her hat in salute.

  “I’ve a friend that still lives on that street. And every time I pass the house where Flossie was I get a tear in my eye. You see she had her baby there and died not long afterward. The little girl was given up for adoption. It was all so sad, and I often wonder if there was something I could have done to help. I did write-several letters-but Flossie never answered them. Perhaps she was too ill or didn’t want any contact with anyone from Moultty Towers. I can’t say as I blame her.” Mrs. Hasty’s head had begun to droop and after several moments said in a drowsy voice: “About this business of the furniture, what exactly are you looking for?”

  “A rosewood secretary desk with brass ring handles that Lady Krumley believes used to be in one of the bedrooms, an oak library table with lion claw feet and a gentleman’s wardrobe with marquetry panels,” I told her.

  “Don’t remember any of them.”

  This was not surprising, since I had invented the lot on the spot.

  “Then we’ll just have to go and look in the attics.” Mrs. Malloy got to her feet and signaled for me to follow suit. With a few murmured words of farewell to the now gently snoring Mrs. Hasty, we swiftly exited the sitting room and were about to walk out the front door when Laureen Phillips came down the stairs. She had probably been up and down several times, fetching and carrying as she tidied up. I told myself I was silly to have had that prickling feeling of unease that she or, even more unlikely, that someone else, had been eavesdropping on our conversation. She looked so sane and sensible in her severe gray blouse and cardigan. She couldn’t possibly be involved in something as distasteful as murder. I was sure that Mrs. Malloy would concur that we would be wasting precious time by including this woman on a list of suspects in whatever nasty business was underway at Moultty Towers.

  “I wonder if I might have a word with you both?” Laureen Phillips held open the door and followed us out into the garden. It was pleasantly said, with just the right touch of deference-something that had been missing upon our arrival at the cottage. Perhaps she wanted some advice for herself on the choice of lampshades or some tips on wallpapering. She might want to elaborate on her fondness for Mrs. Hasty or her concern for Lady Krumley’s health. But I read Mrs. Malloy’s glance as if she had spoken and agreed with her wholeheartedly-there’d be no standing chatting by the wishing well for either of us.

  Fifteen

  “I’ve been sitting upstairs in Mrs. Hasty’s bedroom thinking about how to approach this,” said Laureen Phillips, “and I’ve decided the only way is to say it straight out.”

  “Say what?” The wind tried to ram my voice back down my throat. And Mrs. Malloy, ignoring the fact that her hat was trying to turn itself inside out, kindly repeated the question.

  “That I know you came here posing as interior decorators.”

  “What a bloody load of rubbish!” Mrs. Malloy added her own bluster to that going on all around us. “You need to sit your bottom down on a psychiatrist’s couch, you do. It’s a sickness going round being suspicious of people. Paranoia-that’s the word for what you’ve got! For your information my partner and I have great big diplomas from R.A.D.A.”

  “That would be the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts,” Ms. Phillips pointed out.

  “Same as for the decorative arts,” Mrs. Malloy continued to hold her head high due to the fact that she was standing on tiptoe to retrieve the hat that had blown onto the lamppost outside the cottage. Her blonde coiffure had flattened to her head like a bathing cap, leaving her all painted eyebrows and purple lips. As for myself, I was sure I looked every bit as ruffled as I felt, which left only one of our trio with every hair in place and with a composure to match.

  “It so happens that I trained at R.A.D.A.,” Ms. Phillips informed us. “I was a stage actress for some years. One can be a good actress, working steadily without acquiring either fame or fortune. And one thing you do learn is how to recognize when someone is playing a role.”

  “As it happens, I am an interior designer,” I said.

  “But that’s not what brings you and your colleague to Moultty Towers.”

  “So what does, Miss Clever Dick?” Mrs. Malloy had recaptured her hat and was punching it back into shape.

  “Why don’t I paint a scenario for you?” suggested Laureen. It being regrettably clear that we were in the process of becoming matey, it made sense to think of her on a first-name basis. “Lady Krumley drove off in her car a couple of days ago-something she hadn’t done in years-which would suggest she wasn’t keen on having anyone know where she was going. She became unusually flustered on her departure when her nephew Niles Edmon
ds, whom you have both met, said he felt an asthma attack coming on. He has them frequently, which leads one to wonder if her ladyship’s agitation was due to a fear of being late for an appointment. Are you both with me so far?”

  “One might also ponder,” I deliberately matched her manner, “whether Mr. Edmonds had a suspicion as to the nature of that appointment and was eager to prevent her keeping it.”

  “What an interesting thought! Congratulations. You sound just like the detective in the last play I was in! Is it coincidence, or could Lady Krumley have left to meet with a private detective? Or, better yet, a pair of them.”

  “No wonder the poor old ducks don’t go out often if it caused all this fuss.” Mrs. Malloy had her hat back on and looked ready for the fray. But I had a strong suspicion that she and I were on the losing side of a game whose rules were yet to be made clear. All I could see to do for the moment was try to keep my eye on the ball.

  “Getting back to Mr. Edmonds, why would he be worried if what you suggest were correct?” I smiled to prevent my face from caving in under the buffeting the wind was giving it. Laureen continued to stand with her arms at her sides, seemingly impervious to the elements.

  “He’s the nervous sort. It’s probably a result of having blown up his nursery and his parents along with it when he was a kiddy.”

  “Boys will be boys!” Mrs. Malloy replied loftily. “I almost married a mad scientist once.” She forgot herself sufficiently to smile fondly. “Talk about chemistry! Could he ever make the sparks fly!”

  “A sense of humor helps in any business, and I am sure you need one in yours.” Laureen paused and, when neither Mrs. Malloy nor I replied, went on: “So far as I know, Mr. Edmonds is principally occupied with three things: his health, keeping out of his wife Cynthia’s way and handling his aunt’s business affairs.”