The Importance of Being Ernestine

by Dorothy Cannell

  “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

  “You wouldn’t be willing to talk to Mrs. Malloy about taking on a missing person case? It would be right up the same alley as the one you’re working on now. My cousin opened his eyes and gave me a threadbare smile. “By the way, how’s that going?”

  “We made some progress today. In fact I think we may be close to finding Ernestine. We have the name and address of the people who adopted her.”

  “Great!”

  “It was mostly luck. Several things fell into place. Freddy”-I was struggling into an apron, getting my head stuck in one of the armholes in the process-“about your mother: I don’t feel equipped. You need someone who really knows what they’re doing. Not someone who’s playing detective.” I felt sick when I heard what I was saying. It was just fine to practice on strangers, was it? But not when it came to my own family. Any exhilaration I had felt on leaving the house on Hathaway Road was wiped away. It didn’t help to tell myself that, given Milk Jugg’s absence, Lady Krumley could have been stuck in her hospital bed with no one believing a word of her fantastical tale. I was staring glumly back at Freddy when the garden door opened and my three children came bouncing into the kitchen, followed by Ben with his hands full of white cardboard boxes and several books under one arm.

  “Fe fi fo fum! I smell Chinese food.” I felt a smile slide over my face as little Rose wrapped her arms around my legs and Tam and Abbey raced to pick up Tobias, whose furry face had appeared out of nowhere.

  “I needed to go to the library, and the children wanted to come along.” Ben was unloading onto the table. “So we decided to make a treat of it and get a takeaway.”

  “That’s wonderful. Freddy can stop slaving away chopping onions.”

  “Sorry, I thought I told him…”

  “He’s a bit preoccupied at the moment about Aunt Lulu.”

  “Still no word?” Ben straightened up and began unbuttoning his coat. I could see the concern in his face as he looked at Freddy. And I had one of those moments when my love for him welled up inside me. I felt comforted and sheltered without his eyes shifting my way, or his hand reaching for mine. It had nothing to do with his dark good looks or his way of giving elegance to an elderly sweater and even older pair of trousers. It had to do with the knowledge that he would always be there to rescue me in times of trouble. And, possibly even more important, he would be equally willing to let me rescue him.

  I bustled the children out of their coats as Ben stood talking to Freddy. And after that the three of us got down plates, set out the cutlery and opened the cartons, while the kettle boiled for a fresh pot of tea.

  “This is a feast.” I removed the apron while surveying it.

  “I was in the mood for chicken fried rice,” announced Tam, climbing on to his chair.

  “And I wanted shrimp slug bug.” Abbey pranced over to give me a kiss before taking her place.

  “That’s sub gum,” corrected her brother.

  “Is it?” Abbey appealed to me.

  “Darling, it’s delicious. That’s all that matters.” I was getting Rose into her booster chair, while Ben poured the tea and Freddy produced beakers of milk for the children. He was still looking strained, but he made an effort to appear his usual self when asking Ben what books he had got at the library.

  “Ones on computers.”

  “Oh, dear, so you’re still having trouble?” I was thinking that I must get back in touch with Kathleen Ambleforth to find out what luck she was having in tracking down the typewriter and other items from the study. It didn’t matter that Ben was no longer upset with me. I still had to put things right. Before he could answer Tam started to talk about his library book.

  “It’s about a little train that gets lost. And the people inside get very cross because they wanted to go to London. But they don’t. The train takes them to the seaside. Then they look out the windows and see the sand and the children with buckets and spades and…”

  “My book’s about a bunny rabbit. It’s sad because it can’t find its Mummy.” Abbey looked at my cousin with her bright blue eyes. “Is that why you’re sad, Freddy? Do you want your Mummy?”

  “Do you, Freddy?” Tam was shaking soy sauce onto his plate of fried rice, which he had shifted away from Rose after she reached out to take a handful. Being the typical two-year-old she always preferred one of her siblings’ plates to her own.

  “They must have heard me on the phone talking to Dad.” Freddy was pushing his sub gum around with his fork and completely ignoring his mandarin beef. “Don’t worry kids.” He forced a grin. “I’m fine. After dinner you can read me those books of yours, while your parents have fun by themselves doing the washing up.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Ben spooned out the remains of the cartons.

  And so the evening went. Eight o’clock rolled around, and it was time for the children to get ready for bed. I insisted on doing the honors. I sensed that Ben was eager to get into the study and crack open those computer tomes. He had asked me how my day had gone. Not wanting anything to break the lovely harmony of the moment I had said it had been fine and I’d tell him about it later. I thought about what I would say while giving the children their baths, tucking them into bed and singing “Jesus Tender Shepherd Hear Me” in my untuneful voice before turning on their night lights and giving them each a final goodnight kiss.

  I was halfway down the stairs when the phone rang. I picked it up to hear Kathleen Ambleforth’s voice on the other end.

  “Ellie, cousin Alice has come through.”

  “Splendid!” It took me a moment to realize whom she was talking about.

  “Remember, she made out the lists of where the donations were sent?”

  “Yes.” If Aunt Lulu hadn’t been missing and people getting killed at Moultty Towers I would have erupted into a song and dance number.

  “Do you have a piece of paper handy?”

  “And a pen.” I picked it up.

  “Then here’s the name of the organization and the telephone number. Are you writing it down? Am I going too fast?”

  “I’ve got it.” To reassure her I repeated the information back. It was all just letters and numbers to me. My mind was in a whirl. But I did remember to thank Kathleen profusely before putting down the phone and slipping the piece of paper into my skirt pocket. I would telephone first thing in the morning. Ben came out of the study as I crossed the hall. I was so tempted to tell him, but then I risked disappointing him if something went wrong. Better to wait and surprise him.

  “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 lit
tle 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 wa
s 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.”