The Importance of Being Ernestine Read online

  “So you want me to check out Vincent’s final resting place so to speak, while you do Lady Krumley’s bedroom?” Mrs. Malloy sounded as if she wasn’t sure whether or not to take umbrage.

  “You’re far more experienced, having had more than one husband, at going through men’s pockets and knowing where they hide things when they want to be sneaky, than I am.”

  “Every little piece of expertise helps in this line of work.” She was clearly appeased. “Well, off we go! Me left and you right. And let’s make it snappy. We’ve a lot of ground to cover while we’re here. Have to hope there’s lightbulbs in the bedrooms, not just candles-seems her ladyship likes to keep to the old ways.”

  “It’s daylight.”

  “You could have fooled me, Mrs. H.!”

  “There’ll be windows.”

  “Ha!”

  There were indeed several windows in Lady Krumley’s bedroom. Unfortunately, they were so heavily draped with curtains of undeterminable color that only narrow strips of glass were exposed. A few faint slivers of light managed to creep around the enormous four-poster bed that was itself swathed, from ceiling to floor, in some tapestry material. I felt very much like Pip groping his way toward Miss Haversham. It would not have surprised me if a family of mice had run over my feet or my searching hands had become entangled in a tattered veil of cobwebs. Fortunately one of them located the light switch instead, and the room became fairly decently illuminated. Nothing, short of hauling out all the furniture, could have made it cheerful. But it was neither cobwebby nor dusty. I forgot that I wasn’t really here to redecorate and, after setting down my bag on a table under a portrait of a woman who looked as though she had died before it was painted, wandered about the room, sizing it up. It was large and well-proportioned. And if the hideous marble was removed from the fireplace and replaced with a mellow brick or tile it would make a world of difference. I was picturing a peachy faux finish on the walls and copper wall lights on either side of the bed, which perhaps could be made to do to the point of becoming a magnificent focal point if stripped of its dreary tester and hangings. My mood was turning quite dreamy-a soft-colored whirl of Irish linens, plaids and toiles. No chintz. It would be quite out of character for Lady Krumley. I came back to the real task at hand when I stood in front of her dressing table, where she claimed to have left the emerald brooch before it disappeared. It was now crowded with framed photographs, many of Niles, and an assortment of boxes and bud vases that, knowing her ladyship, I guessed she had been given and felt obliged to keep and display. The mirror that needed resilvering cast a distorted reflection back at me. My eyes looked haunted, my nose off center. Behind me the furniture-a wardrobe and several tallboys-seemed to be crowding in on me, growing taller and wider until they became one giant barrier to the world outside this room. My heart started to hammer. I leaned forward to rest my hands on the dressing table. I thought I heard something. A shifting of position… a scratching… a rustling. Then mental clarity returned. I wondered why the bed had been positioned where it was instead of on the long wall facing the fireplace and closer to the door. A moment later my head was literally in a whirl-a terrifying, screeching, wing-beating darkness grew around me. I don’t like birds, not indoors. Not even so much as a trapped sparrow. And now they surrounded me. Bolts of feathered fury, diving at my head, slamming into windows, walls and furniture. Everything they hit made its own sound. Even though I covered my ears while cowering on the floor, there was no muffling that piercing cacophony. I thought if I could reach the bed, I might be able to get under it. But they seemed to sense what I was about. They pecked at my shoes as I crawled. They were on my back, in my hair. At this point of utmost terror I felt a hand close around my neck. I couldn’t scream. My voice had been beaten deep inside me, but I struggled upright on my knees and lashed out with my arms. I felt rather than heard whoever it was retreat. And a calm descended on me. I recognized the birds for what they were: not some gothic horror, but a weapon unleashed upon me by the human villain of Moultty Towers. As I struggled to my feet the birds thinned out. Their mind-tearing sound began to fade, and only the occasional flutter disturbed the air. The rectangle of solidified darkness that had to be the wardrobe momentarily displayed a crack of light, and I rushed toward it, pawing for the door. I had it open, and someone sprang, pushing me back so that I was again down on my knees, but only for a second. I was back up and blundering in what I hoped was the direction of the door. If I reached it I could find the light switch. I needed the clarity of electric light. I was there. My hand made contact at the instant my legs were grabbed. But before pitching forward I swung around and grabbed at a hank of hair.

  “Got you!” I hung on for dear life.

  “Ouch!” It was a familiar voice, and I dropped my hand like a rock.

  A flutter of wings punctuated the ensuing silence. And then one of us-I wasn’t sure which-turned on the light. Mrs. Malloy and I faced each other. Her hat was gone and her eyelashes were both askew. Otherwise she appeared not too much the worse for wear.

  “You’ve got feathers in your hair.” She eyed me as if this were some ghastly breach of etiquette. “But at least you’re you. Although I’m not so sure I should be pleased. We’d be a lot closer to that five thousand pounds if I’d been about to capture Vincent Krumley’s murderer like I thought.”

  “You hid in the wardrobe.” I was looking around the room. There were plenty of feathers and white splotches on the furniture, but not a blackbird in sight.

  “I was plotting me next move.”

  “Very sensible.” I dropped down on a chair, suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion.

  “Just what happened here, Mrs. H.?”

  “Birds.”

  “I know that.” She stood over me, looking severe. “They were bloody well everywhere when I opened the door. They converged when I reached for the light switch, like they knew what I was up to and weren’t going to let me. I got down on me knees and was floundering around when I bumped into you. If you’d screamed like someone sensible I’d have known it was you, and we wouldn’t have ended up chasing each other around like two cats.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Proper shook up aren’t you, and no wonder. I only wish I had some brandy to give you. But there, there, Mrs. H., Roxie’s here for you.” She did the unthinkable for her-bent down and kissed me on the cheek. “Think they came in through the windows? It’s how they got out. I saw the last one go.”

  “I didn’t realize with all that curtaining that any of them were open.” I got to my feet. “But no, I don’t think that’s how they came in. Why would they? We’re not talking about a swarm of killer bees. Someone set them loose. A whole cage full of them I would imagine. Someone who wanted us to believe that Flossie’s deathbed cruse was again at work.”

  “To scare us away from Moultty Towers.” Mrs. Malloy picked up her hat and set it back on her blonde hair.

  “To give us something to report to Lady Krumley. To keep her shivering in her hospital bed. The original plan may have been to enact the performance when she was in this room, wakened perhaps out of a deep nighttime sleep.”

  “A good way to give her another heart attack.”

  “True, but adjustments have to be made. And we provide a credible pair of witnesses.”

  “So how do you think they got into the room, Mrs. H.? Through the door? It could have been opened a crack…”

  “Too risky.” I had been walking in circles and now turned to face her. “I’ve got another idea. It struck me that the bed is in the wrong place. And there is something else. Sir Horace’s dressing room adjoined this one, which means there has to be another door. But where is it? What if after his death Lady Krumley could not bear looking at it and had the bed moved to conceal it? Look at all those hangings, not just at the sides but along the back. It would have been the simplest thing in the world for someone to enter Sir Horace’s room with the birdcage, open the connecting door and release the birds through the fo
lds of fabric.”

  “Hold on a tick.” Mrs. Malloy’s rump became the room’s focal point as she crawled over the bed. “Let’s see if you’ve got it right.” Her head momentarily disappeared into a flurry of tapestry, before she returned whole and triumphantly to view. “Just like you said.” She bounded onto the floor, which was quite an accomplishment given the four-inch heels. “Now I suppose you’ll want to try and figure out how whoever it was trapped them dratted birds.”

  “Any ideas?” I was standing at the dressing table mirror plucking black fluff and feathers out of my hair.

  “Well, it seems to me, Mrs. H., the easiest way would be if they was in the house to begin with. Where would they most likely get in is the question, and seems to me it would be through some gap or missing tile in the roof. And what’s under the roof is the attic. Put some birdseed in a couple of cages, and somehow rig the door to close once a nice group of them was inside. Wouldn’t require more than time and patience. Think we ought to take a look at them attic?”

  “Absolutely, Mrs. Malloy. But first I should take a look at the skirting board where Lady Krumley’s maid found the brooch. It’s why I came in here.” I was still looking in the dressing table mirror, plucking at my hair. “Did you have any luck in Vincent Krumley’s room?”

  “Not really. That little dog of his-it was a Maltese terrier-was lying on the bed looking all mournful like and it made me feel a bit awkward, like I was out to rob the dead. I kept trying to explain meself and apologizing. There was a suitcase on a chair, but that didn’t offer anything up-just a pair of trousers, a couple of shirts and a cardigan. I did find his wallet in a shoe that the dog had its head on, poor mite. Didn’t snarl at me, just whimpered a bit when I reached for it. But all that was inside was a five pound note, an expired driver’s license and one of them little address cards for restaurants and the like. This one was for some place called The Waysiders. Could be a pub. Remember Vincent Krumley had a drinking problem at one time.”

  “So he did.” I heard what she was saying without really listening. Upon kneeling down to check the infamous skirting board my hand had encountered something small, flat and round. And when I stood up I was holding a brooch. An emerald and diamond brooch. Had it been on the dressing table, unseen among the clutter or photographs and ornaments, to be knocked onto the floor by the swoop of birds?

  At my exclamation Mrs. M. came over to take a look. And we moved together to stand directly under the ceiling light fixture, eager to more closely inspect the source of so much trouble. “It’s pretty,” I said, moving it around in my hand, “but I think that Lady Krumley was right in saying that it isn’t of great value.”

  “It’d look better after a good cleaning.” Mrs. Malloy had taken the brooch from me and turned it over to inspect the back. It was engraved with initials and a date. “Look at all that dirt trapped in the setting. It’s proper caked with crud.” She held up a blackened finger. “You’d think some kiddy had taken it outside and buried it in the back garden. My cousin did that with her Mum’s engagement ring. She was playing at pirates and treasure troves, you know how they do at that age. And oh, what a spanking she got!” Her voice dwindled away to a thread, and her eyes widened under the penciled brows. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Mrs. H.?”

  “That maybe Flossie Jones did steal the brooch after all?” The horror of the birds receded to a distant memory.

  “And she buried it out there in the grounds, so that it wouldn’t be found if she or her room was searched.” Mrs. Malloy looked primed to jump up and down on her four-inch heels. “Then all these years later someone dug it up, either by mistake or on purpose, and set about stirring up the deathbed curse.”

  “All we have to do is find out who and why.” I had just placed the brooch on the dressing table, well in the center where it couldn’t be easily knocked off, when the door opened and a dumpy woman with badly permed hair entered the room, causing Mrs. Malloy to finally jump several inches off the ground.

  “You’ll be the decorators.” The woman in addition to her other dubious attributes had staring eyes and an expressionless voice. “I’m Daisy Meeks. I came over to spend the morning with Niles and Cynthia. Under the circumstances they can do with some cheering up. We heard noises from downstairs. Niles said you would be moving the furniture, seeing how it looks best. The vicar, Mr. Featherstone, was also here. He left shortly after I arrived. He’s not always as chatty as one would like, except with Maude. That’s Lady Krumley. He is very fond of her.”

  “And are you fond of birds?” Mrs. Malloy asked with a slick magenta smile.

  The expressionless face didn’t alter. “Oh, yes. Dear, sweet-singing things. I can’t think of anything nicer than to be surrounded by a lovely soft flutter of wings, can you?”

  It was as much as I could do not to hit her. And the thought came to me that it was a great blessing that she didn’t have a twin, evil or otherwise.

  Thirteen

  Mrs. Malloy and I were forced to scotch our idea of immediately searching the attic after leaving Lady Krumley’s bedroom. Daisy Meeks said she was going up there to look for a black hat, which she thought she remembered having seen in a trunk, that she could wear to Vincent Krumley’s funeral.

  “More likely she intends getting rid of them birdcages,” Mrs. Malloy muttered as we plodded downstairs to the hall. I longed desperately for a cup of tea and even the smallest biscuit. Immediately ahead of us, half obscured in shadow, was a baize door. I pushed it open and, closely followed by Mrs. Malloy, entered a large and surprisingly cheerful-looking kitchen-very old world in general appearance, but with an up-to-date cooker and fridge. A tabby cat dozed on a chair by the brick fireplace and standing at the scrubbed wood table in the center of the room was a comfortably built woman, swathed in a white apron. Her age could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty. She had a couple of chins and bundled-up hair, escaping in wisps around her red face, and she was occupied in slapping a circle of pastry into a pudding basin.

  “Come on in,” she wagged an elbow in our general direction. “No need to stand there like you’re waiting to go into the confession box.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Malloy and I responded together.

  “You’ll be the decorators I take it from what Watkins was saying. And about blooming time, if you ask me, that someone was brought in to bring this place out of the dark ages. Oh, the kitchen’s not too bad. I wouldn’t have come to work here if it had been, although I did insist on the new appliances and the stainless steel sink. There’s no point in being a Muggins I always say and letting your employers treat you like dirt.”

  “How right you are!” Mrs. Malloy shot me a meaningful look.

  “Not that Lady Krumley’s all that difficult. Likes her meals to time, but that suits me fine, and she gives me a free hand with the menus. Why not sit yourselves down while I finish up this steak and kidney pudding and get it into the steamer?” The woman had picked up a rolling pin and was rolling out another circle of pastry. “Then I’ll brew us up a pot of tea.”

  “That sounds lovely.” I set down my bag, perched on a stool and watched Mrs. Malloy do likewise. “Have you worked here long?”

  “A little over four years. I came about a twelve-month after Watkins, which worked out well. Never lorded it over me, he hasn’t. In fact, I’ve had to set him straight about a few things: laying the table for special dinners, that sort of thing. Mrs. Edmonds can be nasty if all the wineglasses aren’t lined up just right. Comes from not being used to much before she married His Wheezyness. Read all she knows about etiquette in books; you know the type. I’m Mrs. Beetle, by the way, and in goes the pudding.” She cleared away the pastry scraps and wiped off the table before bustling over to the sink to fill the kettle and get down cups and saucers from an overhead cupboard.

  “My partner here is married to a chef.” Mrs. Malloy proffered this piece of information with her nose stuck up so high it hit the brim of her hat. “You may have heard
of him, seeing as how he writes cookery books.”

  “Well, I don’t know.” Mrs. Beetle did not look ready to swoon with excitement. “What’s his name?”

  “Ben Haskell,” I told her.

  “Not… not Bentley T. Haskell?” Now she did clutch a hand to her bosom and, at my nod, her eyes widened to the size of the saucers she was setting down on the table. “Why I’ve got all his books! Wouldn’t be without them! Every one of my favorite recipes come from… oh, I don’t know if I’m on my head or my heels. Who would have thought it? To be standing here talking to his wife. Just wait till I tell my husband.”

  Mrs. Malloy was beginning to look somewhat miffed under the fancy hat. “I may not be married to him, Mrs. H. here having met him first you understand, but there’s not much I couldn’t tell you about the way he whips his egg whites and tosses his pancakes. And it could be, if you hurry up with that tea and come up with a slice of fruitcake, that I’ll get his autograph for you.”

  “You think he might? Oh, I would be thrilled!” Mrs. Beetle put both feet forward, producing not only the cake but also a plate of potato scones. The tea was hot and strong. A blue and white striped sugar bowl and milk jug appeared in the middle of the table, and I sat contentedly listening to her sing my husband’s culinary praises.

  “What a way that man has with ingredients! And his measurements! Exact to the quarter teaspoonful. When he says the recipe makes four dozen biscuits that’s what you get. No going round pinching off bits of dough to eke out two or three more. The other night when that Mr. Vincent Krumley showed up I’d made the ragout on page 336 of The Edwardian Lady’s Cookery Book.” Mrs. Beetle’s face glowed a deep shiny red. “Two and a half hours in a moderate oven and the Queen herself couldn’t have asked for better. It comforts me to think,” she said, again passing me the scones, “that the poor man had a thumping good dinner his last night on earth. You’ll have heard what happened to him, I suppose?”