The Importance of Being Ernestine

by Dorothy Cannell

  Both husband and wife looked completely blank, but it was Mrs. Merryweather who spoke: “But that’s what you and this other lady,” he said, waving at me, “have come to tell us, isn’t it?

  “No.” Now Mrs. Malloy and I were wearing the blank expressions.

  “You mean… but we thought…” Mr. Merryweather spluttered to a halt and had to cough himself back to coherence. “We somehow got the idea that Ernestine had decided to get back in touch after having washed her hands of us twenty some years ago, never so much as letting us have her address. And because we’ve moved several times since then, sometimes out of the area and back, it would make sense for her to use a detective service. We thought, Ethel and I, that you were sounding us out to find out if we were willing to see her. To be honest we’ve had mixed feelings. We love her, always will, but we’re not sure we can go back to those days of having to hide the butter for fear of being lectured for hours about our cholesterol levels. Or of trying to keep the peace by drinking nothing stronger than decaffeinated coffee. And being reviled-that’s not too strong a word-for listening to rock ’n’ roll music.”

  “The day she packed her bags and walked out the door we shed a lot of tears.” Mrs. Merryweather blinked hard.

  “But then you know what we did?” Her husband grabbed her in a bear hug. “This little woman and I got back into life. She got her portrait painted. We went on our first cruise. And you know what helped most? Talking to other parents who’d learned to live with being a bitter disappointment to their children. So,” he paused, “what do you have to tell us about Ernestine?”

  “That Lady Krumley wishes to make amends by leaving her a sizeable inheritance.” I said.

  “Well, isn’t that nice.” Mrs. Merryweather dabbed at her eyes. “That calls for a drink. How about a nice clove cordial?”

  Twenty

  Upon our departure from number seventeen Seashell Crescent, Mrs. Malloy and I drove to the Cottage Hospital where Lady Krumley was a patient. We now prowled its corridors, hoping to find a lift before our food supply-the bag of lemon drops and the half bar of chocolate in my handbag-ran out.

  “Next time perhaps you’ll think to bring a map.” Mrs. Malloy teetered around to look back the way we had come. “I’m beginning to understand how Moses managed to spend forty years getting lost and relost in the desert. But I’m not blaming you, Mrs. H. I’m worn out after a morning spent talking to those Merryweathers. Them and their limbo dancing! It makes me wonder what it was like for Ernestine being their kiddie. Probably worn out by the time she was four and ready for the rocking chair at age twelve. But then again some little tinkers would have thrived on it and gone hot air ballooning out their bedroom window every chance they got. Or maybe it was like they said, that they didn’t discover their wild side till after she was gone. What did you think of that rude picture of Mrs. Merryweather?”

  “Very realistic.”

  “You can say that again, Mrs. H.! I’ve heard of them paintings where the eyes follow you all around the room, but this was worse. It wasn’t the eyes, it was the other-boobs and bobs-that kept staring at me, even when I squeezed me eyes shut. You can tell me it would be spoiling the integrity of the piece, but if that thing was to be hung in my front room I’d have to paint on a pair of knickers and a twenty-four-hour support bra. But we’ve got to be fair. Mr. Merryweather said it wasn’t done till Ernestine was out of the house. Rebelling against authority is what it’s called.”

  “Whose authority in this case?”

  “Ernestine’s. From the sound of it she was rather a strict child-on at them every minute about one thing or another. That sort of thing can wear you down in a hurry. My George tried it with me a few times, saying I should dress more me age and cut back on bingo and me occasional gin and tonics. Well, as you can imagine, Mrs. H., I soon told him what he could do with his advice. And it wasn’t to stuff it up his jumper. But likely the Merryweathers don’t have my backbone.”

  “It’s very sad to think of parents not having any contact with a daughter in twenty years.” I kept on walking and Mrs. Malloy came teetering alongside me. Her sideways glance at my face was shrewd.

  “You can stop that this minute Mrs. H.!”

  “What?”

  “Fretting about little Rose. What went on between Ernestine and her Mum and Dad had nothing to do with her being adopted. Children is children however they get here.”

  “We can’t assume that Ernestine wasn’t affected. And you know how it is,” I said, quickening my pace, “whenever there are problems with an adopted child. People tend to throw up their hands and say what can you expect!”

  “What people? Probably the ones who’d like to come up with an excuse for why their own kids is all messed up.”

  “Possibly.” After the damp chill of the outdoors the hospital hallways felt unbearably stuffy. A few moments later I decided Mrs. Malloy had reached the point of hallucinating. Flinging out an arm she queried in a faltering voice, “Is that a wheelchair I see before me, the handles toward my hand?”

  “Not that I can see. But if you want to get in I’ll push you.”

  She heaved an irritated sigh. “I was just trying to lighten things up, taking the mickey out of Shakespeare. Didn’t take me for the highbrow sort, did you, Mrs. H.? Always a big mistake that is, making assumptions.” Her voice mellowed. “It’s why we’re both feeling so low at this minute. We showed up at the Merryweathers’s door thinking they’d tell us what Ernestine is up to these days and how to get in touch with her. Never a thought that we’d come up short.”

  “We should have been more realistic.” We came to a water-cooler, but I decided it had to be a mirage. “If it were that easy everyone would be private detectives, which wouldn’t be good for the likes of Milk Jugg.”

  “We wouldn’t want that.” Mrs. Malloy didn’t sound as sure as I would have expected. “But I’ve got to thinking as how there’s something to be said for being new at this work. Not going by the book like Milk would do.”

  “How does our muddling along from one moment to the next work in our favor?”

  “Muddling isn’t the word I’d choose. I’d call it taking a fresh approach.” Mrs. M. flung a vexed look my way. “If Milk was on the job, talking to the Merryweathers and such-like we’ve gone and done-I can’t see him stuffing his face with scones while they rambled on about this, that and the other, or sitting watching that Mrs. Joritz knitting. Being a busy man with other cases on the books he’d have had to speed things up, take control of the interview. It’s the way he’ll have been taught. But you and me, we haven’t been to private detective school. So, for the most part, we’ve just let people chat. And maybe that’ll end up being more help than them just answering questions.”

  “Because it’s the little things-the seemingly unimportant snippets-that help build up the picture, or suddenly turn it around. Yes, I know exactly what you mean, Mrs. Malloy. It happened to me this morning. Only it wasn’t the Merryweathers; it was something you said.” I broke off because we found ourselves standing in front of a lift. Its doors opened. People-mostly hospital staff-got out. We stepped into the empty space, and I pressed the button to Lady Krumley’s floor.

  “So what does that make me? The dim-witted sidekick that can’t figure out how he’s helped, while the detective just stands there combing his moustache and looking clever?” Mrs. Malloy stuck her nose up so high it almost knocked off her hat.

  “Of course not, but this isn’t the best time to get into it. Anyway, it’s only a thought to be picked over when we’re not in the middle of something else, such as deciding what we are going to say to her ladyship.”

  “I thought we’d been over that.” Mrs. Malloy sounded only slightly mollified. “We’ll keep it simple. Tell her we’ve located Ernestine’s adoptive parents and that we believe Vincent Krumley was murdered.”

  “And not by some phantom figure. I’m still not sure what’s best to be done about Cynthia Edmonds. What are the odds of her o
wning up to the blackmail if Lady Krumley were to warn her to be careful, or she’ll end up the next victim?”

  “Slim to none, I’d say.”

  “We have to persuade the police to cooperate.”

  “No harm in being optimistic, Mrs. H.!”

  The lift doors opened, and we emerged within a few yards of the nurses’ station. It was presently a hive of activity. Personnel came and went, some holding clipboards, some scribbling down notes and the majority with stethoscopes dangling around their necks. It was a couple of minutes before Mrs. Malloy and I were able to get the attention of a nurse. She was a motherly-looking woman and managed to seem as though she welcomed another interruption. But when we asked to see Lady Krumley, her expression altered dramatically. We were about to be given some very bad news.

  “I’m sorry, she’s gone.”

  “You mean she’s been discharged?” I croaked.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Was it very sudden like?” Mrs. Malloy grabbed hold of my arm, which no doubt gave her some support but forced me almost to my knees.

  “Very. A nurse was in the room when Lady Krumley received a phone call. So she left. And when she went back in just five minutes later, her ladyship had done a bunk.”

  “Well, I don’t think that’s a very nice way of putting it,” said Mrs. Malloy. “Couldn’t you say had been called above?”

  “I suppose I could, if she’d died.” The nurse’s face now expressed bewilderment. “But that’s not what we’re talking about here. Oh, I’m sorry.” Light belatedly dawned. “Lady Krumley didn’t take an unexpected turn for the worse. The doctors were very pleased. The tests showed she hadn’t suffered a heart attack. They believe the problem-her fainting or passing out in the car the other night-was stress-induced. She was to be released tomorrow. So why she’d just walk out of here like that is a complete puzzle, unless it could have had something to do with that phone call.”

  “That must have been it.” I was speaking more to Mrs. Malloy.

  “I shouldn’t have discussed this with you.” The nurse’s kindly face turned anxious. “You haven’t told me what your relationship is to Lady Krumley, and we’re only allowed to discuss a patient with close family members.”

  “That’s us,” Mrs. M. assured her.

  “Oh, what a relief!” The woman was more than ready to accept this as fact. “We try not to let our emotions get in the way of our work. But I’ve got an elderly grandmother myself, and I’d be worried sick if she pulled a stunt like this. Her ladyship’s nephew who lives with her was contacted as soon as we realized she was gone. He promised to get in touch the minute she showed up. Which of course she’s bound to do.”

  “We’ll go to Moultty Towers at once,” I said and joined Mrs. Malloy in thanking her and promising not to breathe a word to anyone about having been told what had happened. We eased away, got into the lift that luckily was waiting and, on stepping out onto the ground floor where we had spent so much time getting lost, found ourselves facing the exit door. The car wasn’t hiding in the parking lot. We walked straight to it and were speedily upon our way heading out of Mucklesby in the direction of Biddlington-By-Water.

  “I’ll bet you my share of the five thousand pounds her ladyship promised us, Lady Krumley got bad news about Cynthia Edmonds.” Mrs. Malloy opened the bag of lemon drops and for once offered me one. “She’ll have met with a fatal accident or been fed bad mushrooms. And we could say it serves her right, but that wouldn’t be Christian and is probably against the ethics of our profession.”

  “You admitted just a short while ago that we’re amateurs.”

  “The word never crossed me lips. I said we was just starting out, and wasn’t yet bogged down by a lot of rules and regulations.” Mrs. Malloy closed her mouth on another lemon drop, and we drove in silence until reaching the outskirts of Biddlington-By-Water. “I’ve been thinking,” she informed me as we approached the village.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not the only one that can do it. Or keep their little inspirations to themselves till they’re ready to talk about them. What I want you to do, Mrs. H., is stop the car. Outside the café where we met Laureen Phillips will do nicely. We’re coming up to it now.”

  “What’s this about?” I asked upon dutifully parking.

  “We can’t let things drag on any longer. Not with the bodies beginning to pile up. It’s clear to me that our best hope of cracking this case is to talk to Constable Thatcher’s son, young Ronald. I’m not saying you haven’t been thinking along them lines too,” she said and poked her head sideways to peer in the rearview mirror, “but the question has been how to go about it.”

  “And what have you come up with?”

  “I’m going to be the truant officer.”

  “But you don’t know he’s ever been improperly absent from school.”

  “Well, I don’t think it likely he got back on time from his dinner hour after throwing them flower pots at Lady Krumley’s car and all the rest of what went on. I’ll find out where he lives and march over to his house and insist on talking to him. He was off school yesterday and with luck he’ll have stayed home another day. And I’ll want to know why, won’t I? If not I’ll have to slide one by the headmaster or whoever I talk to and have Ronald pulled out of class.”

  “But he won’t even talk to his parents.”

  “That’s different. I’ll be official. But I won’t be his constable Dad, or his Mum, who sounds the soft sort, going out to buy him them comics after him being so naughty, on the face of it that is. I’ll make it clear to young Ronald that he can’t have anyone better on his side than yours truly, so long as he don’t keep me twiddling me thumbs while he tries to feed me some cock-and-bull story. My George knew how far he could play me; I’m sure it’ll be just the same with Ronald. And it will end up with him sitting on me knees feeling a whole lot better for getting things off his little chest.”

  Her confidence boosted my spirits. Having arranged that she would walk over to Moultty Towers when she was done, I waved and after seeing Mrs. Malloy disappear into the café to ask directions to the Thatcher’s house, drove the short distance through gathering gloom. It made the day seem closer to evening than early afternoon and gave the house a grimmer aspect than on yesterday’s visit as I proceeded up the drive. Upon ringing the doorbell, my feelings of trepidation returned full force. Cynthia Edmonds might not have been a nice person, but I shrank from hearing that something awful had happened to her.

  I hadn’t completely gathered myself together when I was ushered into the house, not by Watkins the butler, but by Mr. Featherstone the vicar. He recalled in the kindest of voices having met me at the hospital and simplified the situation by saying that he was aware, from having talked with Laureen Phillips, that I had been hired by Lady Krumley as a private detective, not as an interior designer, and he had told her ladyship a short time ago while driving her home from the hospital that he was privy to the secret.”

  “Your partner is not with you this afternoon?”

  “She’ll be here shortly. But tell me about her ladyship?”

  “I think under different circumstances she would have enjoyed making her escape.” His distinguished face creased into a smile. “Maude has always been a woman of remarkable spirit. She telephoned me from a kiosk near the hospital, and asked me to come and fetch her. It was unfortunate that when Niles rang her, he made Cynthia’s condition seem worse than it was, an understandable reaction on the part of a husband. But I do feel he leans too heavily at the best of times upon his aunt for emotional support. However well she has come through this episode, she has had a couple of heart attacks.”

  “I’ve been fearing the worst,” I said. “That Cynthia was dead.”

  “Neither has she suffered any severe injury. You had anticipated she would be the next victim?” There was no one visible in the hall or on the stairs, but Mr. Featherstone beckoned me into a small room fitted out like a parlour. “This is b
etter. It wouldn’t do to risk being overheard.” He looked and sounded profoundly concerned. “For quite a time now, I have felt something in this house-the presence of a disturbed personality. Call it evil if you will. This could come from my subconscience, triggered by some half-formed recognition. I’ve tried to puzzle it out, with no success, Mrs. Haskell. Do I have your name correctly?”

  “Yes, Mr. Featherstone. Please tell me what happened to Cynthia Edmonds.”

  “She was out riding several miles from here at around noon, when her horse bolted onto a main road-something it has never previously done. Cynthia is an excellent rider of many years’ experience, but even that might not have saved her. It is a heavily trafficked road, but God was with her. One could call it a miracle. It happened when there wasn’t a vehicle in sight.”

  “Does she routinely ride in that area, at the same time of day?”

  “I believe so. Maude describes Cynthia as a creature of habit. She keeps a detailed calendar and rarely varies from it. An exacting woman in many respects. I say this,” Mr. Featherstone met my eyes squarely, “because for you to accomplish what you have come here to do, it is imperative that you have an insight into the personalities of all those involved.”

  “Yes,” I said. Exacting was very likely an excellent description of Cynthia Edmonds. It meshed with the fuss about her hairdresser making her the wrong shade of blonde. And when taken further it could provide the sort of ruthlessness necessary for blackmail. “How badly was she hurt?”

  “A few bruises and a scraped elbow. The worst injury appears to have been to her pride in falling off her horse.”

  “You don’t think she will take it out on the animal?”

  “No.” Mr. Featherstone smiled. It was a gentle and serene smile. “Cynthia loves that horse. It brings out what is best in her. We all have something that does that for us. A redeeming force. And sometimes in the end it is enough to turn back the darkness.”

  I was tempted to say it was a pity Cynthia ever had to get off the horse. Instead I asked if I was right in assuming that Mr. Featherstone didn’t believe her to be the source of what was going on at Moultty Towers. He replied that he did not, and then brought up the subject of Laureen Phillips and his nephew.