The Importance of Being Ernestine

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Fiddling the books, you mean?” Mrs. Malloy prided herself on being receptive to the helpful hint.

  “I’m a maid, not a spy.” Laureen gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “I don’t poke and pry through private documents, or listen at keyholes-unless I feel a moral obligation to do so.”

  “As you did just now in the cottage?” I stared her straight in the eye.

  “What do you mean? I never came downstairs until I heard you come out of the sitting room. But let’s stop all the fancy footwork.” Other than waving her hand that once, Laureen hadn’t moved a muscle. “You two women know what was on Lady Krumley’s mind that day, because it was you she went to see. We made the mistake of thinking the investigator was a man, but there was no doubt about what had put her ladyship in such emotional turmoil. It was that wretched brooch turning up.”

  “And you’re the one what found it!” The words shot out of Mrs. Malloy’s mouth in the form of an accusation, but her subsequent apologetic look was directed at me. “There! I’ve gone and done it, Mrs. H.! Let on that Lady Krumley told us that!”

  “So did Mrs. Hasty just now.”

  “I forgot and thought I’d blown our cover. Sorry. Too late, now.”

  “There is something Lady Krumley wouldn’t have told you.” Laureen glanced back toward the copse and for the first time looked uneasy, although it was highly unlikely that anyone lurking there could have picked up even a few isolated words of what we were saying. We were standing close to the cottage, a good hundred yards from the closest trees, meaning that even without the wind we should have been safe from pricked ears. And surely by standing out in the open we would appear less likely to be discussing anything of a secret nature. Even so, I was glad that when Laureen continued it was even more quietly. “Lady Krumley wouldn’t have told you because I didn’t tell her…”

  “What?” Mrs. M. and I whispered back.

  “That the brooch wasn’t there jammed in behind the skirting board on the day before it was found.”

  “Are you sure?” Again the words were barely mouthed in unison.

  “Absolutely. I had dropped a hairpin”-she touched a hand to the heavy coil at the back of her head-“right in that same spot, and I bent down and searched along the whole board. I found the pin, but there wasn’t any brooch. I’d have seen it. I know I would, just as I did… after it had been put there for me to find.”

  I retied my raincoat belt that had come undone and been flapping about in the wind. “Why now? Why would someone choose this moment to resurrect the past?”

  “Why not any other time in the last forty years?” Mrs. Malloy clapped a hand on her hat as it tried to make another break for it. “What’s different about now? That’s what I’d bloody well like to know.”

  Laureen cast another glance back at the copse. “It could be that someone only recently got his or her hands on that brooch. What’s needed is to find out who that someone is, so we can understand what’s to be gained.”

  “By scaring Lady Krumley out of her wits.” Mrs. Malloy’s scowl did Milk Jugg proud.

  “She didn’t strike me as the type to be easily frightened.” I was picturing that face with its black hooded eyes and beak of a nose. “What I saw was a woman consumed with remorse. If that is the object to play games with her conscience then it’s working perfectly. She has set about doing what is required to locate Flossie’s child. But why? What is so desperately important about Ernestine?”

  “We can’t stay talking here.” Laureen looked at her wrist-watch. “I need to go back in and get Mrs. Hasty something quick for lunch and then return to the house. But I could make an excuse-pretend I need to go into the village to buy something. It’s not as though I’ve all that much to do with her ladyship in the hospital. I could meet you at the café to the right of the green. It’s called The Copper Kettle; you can’t miss it. Say in about an hour’s time?” She acknowledged my nod and started to walk away, but Mrs. Malloy caught hold of her sleeve.

  “Not so fast. I’ve been wanting to know who you was talking about when you said ‘we’.”

  “When I said what?”

  “Don’t look daft, ducky.” Mrs. M. stuck her nose in the air and should have thought herself lucky not to have it pecked off by the blackbird flitting past. “It was when you was talking about Lady Krumley going off in the car. You said ‘we’ made the mistake of thinking the investigator was a man. Now that would be you and who else?” She shot me a triumphant look at having beaten me to the post on that one.

  “Be at the café and I’ll tell you.” Laureen disappeared into the cottage, and Mrs. Malloy and I headed back through a gathering mist to Moultty Towers to reenter the kitchen where we found Mrs. Beetle taking a rice pudding out of the oven. She nodded and smiled but did not attempt to engage us in conversation when we said were on our way up to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Edmonds about taking a look in the attics, something Mrs. Malloy and I had decided was a good idea in order to maintain our fast-fading aura of credibility. Besides, there was the question of the birds. We went out into the hall, but before either of us came within knocking distance of the drawing room door, Watkins came out of an apartment on the other side of the hall. In the glow from the vast overhead chandelier his white eyebrows appeared faintly orange and his bald head shone as if he took a professional pride in assiduously polishing it along with the silver. His stooped shoulders did not diminish his stately progress toward us.

  “Ah, Mr. Hopkins!” Mrs. Malloy shot me another of her smug looks at having his name on the tip of her tongue.

  “Watkins, madam. Hopkins was the name of the prior butler. A common mistake, one made by Mr. Vincent Krumley upon his arrival the other evening. Had I known that his visit was to be curtailed I would not have taken the liberty of correcting him. He was so delighted to see again, as he thought, someone from his past. A very great tragedy despite his advanced years.” He cleared his throat. “Do you wish me to advise Mr. Edmonds that you need to speak with him? He is currently engaged in the drawing room with Sir Alfonse Krumley, who is just arrived from France to discuss the”-another gentle cough-“necessary arrangements for Mr. Vincent Krumley’s funeral. Miss Daisy Meeks is with them.”

  “Then we won’t disturb Mr. Edmonds.” I did a good job of keeping the relief out of my voice.

  “That might be as well, madam. Miss Meeks is an excitable lady under normal circumstances and she was displaying a great deal of agitation, when I went in a few moments ago with the tea tray, at the prospect of the inquest. It will make for something of an occasion in Biddlington-By-Water, and Miss Meeks was concerned that she did not have the right hat. She had hoped to find one in the attics. Something neither too plain or too fancy.” His eyes went to Mrs. Malloy’s headgear, but he did not ask where she’d had the good fortune to purchase it, perhaps because it was looking rather the worse for wear following its tussles with Mother Nature. Instead he apologized for allowing his tongue to run away with him, to which Mrs. Malloy responded kindly that it was entirely understandable in the circumstances.

  “An inquest you say, and I suppose there had to be a post-mortem? Horrible it must be for you to think that just the other night the poor old codger was cutting into his dinner and now… well, best not to go thinking about it, ducks. I suppose the police are sure it was an accident? They wouldn’t go thinking that it was anything else, would they? I mean that he threw himself down that well on purpose, while the balance of his mind was disturbed over the disappearance of his little doggie?”

  “Constable Thatcher was here a half hour ago. I met him outside the kitchen door and presumed to have a word with him. He made it clear that the inquest would be a formality. Mr. Krumley was over ninety and very tottery on his legs, all the more so at the time because he had indulged in a glass or two of brandy to calm himself down before he went looking for Pipsie. He had informed me upon his arrival that he had given up drinking and would not partake of wine at dinner, so perhaps he was more strongly affected t
han he would have been in the past.” Watkins again cleared his throat, and I felt my heart sink. From the sound of things the police weren’t going to be of any help. I pictured Mrs. Malloy and myself showing up at the police station and reeling off our tale off deathbed curses, missing brooches and Krumleys dropping of the family twig like windfall apples. The only thing that might make this Constable Thatcher sit up and listen was our encounter with Have Gun, but then the question would arise, why hadn’t we reported on him sooner? My head started to spin. I hadn’t eaten much breakfast, I’d had that terrifying experience with the birds, and it was more than time for lunch. Steaming away in the kitchen was Mrs. Beetle’s steak and kidney pudding. My mouth watered. If Mrs. Malloy and I didn’t hurry we would be late for our appointment with Laureen, where with luck we would again get to settle for baked beans on toast. I thought about giving the attics a pass, but we had to check for those birdcages. Mrs. Malloy had brought them up to Mr. Watkins and he was already requesting that we follow him up the staircase. Perhaps he regretted not having escorted us on our prior trip.

  After toiling up several additional flights above the bedroom floor and in the process meeting the steely-eyed gaze of a series of family portraits, we reached a door crouched below a sloping ceiling, which Watkins opened with the aplomb of a museum curator. His hand found an inner light switch that murkily illuminated a labyrinth of caves with wooden rafters festooned with cobwebs, below which stood forlorn groups of furniture and trunks. I thought of Kathleen Ambleforth and how she would have had the removal vans loaded within five minutes of being told she could have this lot for her charities.

  “I really must speak to the girls who come in to clean about keeping up with their dusting up here.” Watkins shook his head and said that he hoped we would be successful in our endeavors. “No doubt it will do Lady Krumley a world of good upon her recovery to involve herself in redecorating the house. If you will forgive the presumption, the addition of a handsome library table and secretary desk should particularly lift her spirits. The library was, to my understanding, Sir Horace’s favorite room, and Lady Krumley enjoys tending to her correspondence.”

  Mrs. Malloy and I thanked him, whereupon he retreated down the stairs, leaving us facing what now struck me as a hostile mob of wardrobes, armchairs and chests of drawers. We stood for a few minutes regretting the bag of lemon drops she had given to Mrs. Hasty, then discussed how desperately we both wanted a cup of tea and whether Laureen would already be waiting for us at The Copper Kettle. I climbed over a footstool in search of the birdcages, while Mrs. Malloy parked herself on a rush-seated chair. As might have been supposed I was the one who spotted them. There were two behind a brass bed piled end to end with boxes. They had been used and duly replaced. Methodical, I had to hand that to our murderer.

  “Nice to be proved right.” Mrs. M. was already heading out. “Where’s your bag? You won’t want to come back for it.”

  “I left it in the hall.”

  “And don’t forget we promised to bring Mrs. Beetle an autographed copy of one of Mr. H.’s cookery books,” she reminded me as we scurried down the first set of stairs. “Tina, she said her name was. I wonder what that’s short for? Christina most likely, don’t you suppose?”

  “Probably.”

  We had descended to the bedroom floor with speed, but even with thoughts of lunch abounding my steps slowed. All this exercise might be good for me, but my legs were starting to complain. Pain, however, was not what brought me to a dead halt outside a door that was cracked open an inch.

  “You could have signaled,” Mrs. Malloy complained.

  “Shush!” I backed up along the wall, drawing her alongside me.

  “Don’t you go shushing me! We’re not back at Merlin’s Court, you know!”

  “Listen!” I whispered. “There’s someone in there talking… Something about the brooch.”

  “That’s Cynthia Edmond’s voice.”

  I nodded, pressing a finger to my lips as I strained to catch the words, spoken with a deliberation that intensified their venom. Mrs. Malloy was breathing heavily down my neck.

  “I know you put it there.” Cynthia gave a throaty laugh. “I came across it in your jacket pocket the previous day. I wouldn’t put it past you to have suggested to gullible Aunt Maude that it would be a good idea to have that girl Laureen give the skirting board a good dusting, by way to making sure she learned the importance of being thorough. What a crafty thing you are, with your blank face and that voice that drives me up the wall. How we have all underestimated you. And how you are going to be made to pay, in substantial installments adding up to a great deal of money. Don’t worry, you won’t have to take it out of the piggy bank. It should be a simple matter of fiddling the books.”

  “I bet that’s gone down like a plateful of fish and chips,” Mrs. M. whispered in my ear.

  “Quick!” I mouthed back at her. “They’re walking about. They could be coming out!” I caught my breath. Something silky had brushed against my ankle. I looked down and a Maltese terrier looked up. First it gave a pitiful whine and then it nosed growling and yipping toward the door. This was all we needed! Yanking my fellow snoop’s arm I tiptoed at a run toward the stairs and only ventured to look back when we were almost at the bottom. That door hadn’t opened. And no one was in the hall where I grabbed up my bag. But my breathing didn’t slow until Mrs. Malloy and I were in the car driving toward the gates.

  “So that’s what Cynthia Edmonds meant by that remark in the drawing room about a business venture bearing fruit, Mrs. H. She was talking about blackmail. Who do you suppose was with her that she got the goods on?”

  “Her husband springs first to mind. He’s an accountant. He handles his aunt’s financial affairs. Who better to fiddle the books?”

  “Well,” Mrs. Malloy said, applying fresh lipstick, “I could almost feel sorry for the man. As for that Cynthia she’s playing a dangerous game. He may love her, but a man who’d kill his own parents won’t likely let that stop him.”

  “We don’t know that he did kill them. It probably was an accident. And it may not have been Niles in that bedroom with Cynthia. It may not even have been a man,” I said as we parked outside The Copper Kettle, which as Laureen had promised was on the other side of the green from the Biddlington-By-Water police station.”

  “You’ve got a point.” Mrs. M. sounded only vaguely interested.

  “A pity that little dog can’t talk. There was someone in that room that it didn’t like.”

  “Mmm!”

  “What have you got ticking away inside your head?” I asked sharply.

  “Oh, nothing all that exciting.” She returned the lipstick to her handbag and snapped the clasp. “I’ve just solved it, is all.”

  “But you can’t have. We haven’t found Ernestine yet.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean the case.” Mrs. Malloy swung her high heels onto the pavement. “It’s even better than that. I know why Watkins’s face seemed so familiar. He’s the man I told you about, the one I talked to a few years back when I came to play bingo with the Biddlington-By-Water senior citizens.”

  Sixteen

  Trust Mrs. Malloy to have added Watkins to the list of men included in what she was fond of referring to with capital letters as Her Past. I told her I was happy for her, that I vaguely remembered her mentioning some old geezer from that night at bingo. But I didn’t recall her sounding all that smitten. Hadn’t there been something about his feeling guilty about gambling because his wife didn’t approve?

  “No one’s perfect, Mrs. H., and seen in daylight he’s not a bad-looking chap.”

  “And handy around the house. That’s not to be sneezed at.”

  We were entering the café, typical of its sort, with closely grouped tables between which a waitress with a fierce look of concentration on her face was squeezing her way. One turned head, one shift of a customer’s foot, one poke of an elbow and there would go the loaded plates she was carrying. The wall,
shelf-lined with copper kettles, provided another hazard, being at just the right height to ensure that anyone seated at a table beneath it would get a cracked head if failing to exercise extreme caution when getting up from a chair.

  “It wasn’t his wife.” Mrs. Malloy narrowly missed being side-swiped by one of the plates. “It was his daughter or granddaughter or maybe a niece.”

  “Not a nephew?” I was sidling toward the only empty table.

  “Oh ho, aren’t we getting snippy, Mrs. H.?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m hungry and worried that we’re only going to make matters worse by sticking our noses in this business. It will probably take ages for us to be served. And it has begun to dawn on me that we have too many nephews cluttering up this case.”

  “Do we?” Mrs. Malloy looked genuinely nonplussed.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I said, moving the bottle of sauce as though it were a pawn on a chess board, “I’m not blaming you for insisting that there be a nasty nephew involved, but one per murder plot is usually considered adequate.”

  “That’s all there is, Niles Edmonds.”

  “Wrong.” I shifted the pepper pot. “I can count two more already. Mrs. Beetle mentioned the vicar had a nephew who was something of a disappointment because he’d gone on the stage. And Mrs. Hasty told us that Mrs. Snow, the horrible housekeeper, paid her nephew’s boarding school fees.”

  “And I’ll bet he’s been made to pay through the nose ever since, the poor sod. He’s probably at her beck and call this minute, trotting up and downstairs with cups of tea and extra pillows for her poor old back. And then there’s someone like Milk”-she threw out a hand, knocking over the salt shaker that I had just set up in position-“off doing what real men do: getting mugged in alleyways and boozing it up in some back room. It just don’t seem fair.”

  “You’re right. It isn’t the least bit fair to Lady Krumley that we’re playacting at handling her case because we’ve no means of getting in touch with Mr. Jugg, who must surely have enough credibility with the police to get them to take a closer look at Vincent Krumley’s death. He might also tell us how to set about finding Ernestine pronto.” In my agitation I shot back in my chair and pilloried the waitress.