Dorothy Cannell - The Importance of Being Ernestine

“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 better. 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.

“Laureen told me she had confessed to you and your partner about the stunt they hatched up between them. I very much regret and disapprove of Tom scaring you by showing up with that gun.”

“We should have realized it wasn’t real.”

“That doesn’t lessen the seriousness of his shocking behavior.”

“There was no harm done, in fact quite the reverse. It convinced Mrs. Malloy and me that there might be something in Lady Krumley’s story that needed investigating.”

“You’re very kind, and there is another bright side.” Mr. Featherstone’s eyes twinkled. “His performance convinced my nephew that acting wasn’t the career for him, and he has decided to go into the church. Laureen also seems to have discovered her true calling. She has found so much pleasure spending time with Mrs. Hasty and other elderly people in the village that she has decided to make working with them her chosen path.”

“That’s wonderful!” I really meant it and could not resist asking: “Any hope of wedding bells?”

“An engagement is imminent.”

What a special man he was, so freely rejoicing in the romantic happiness of others when his own hopes for a life with Lady Krumley had not been realized. But surely it wasn’t too late even at this stage in their lives. Maybe, once she was able to put all this business of Flossie Jones and Ernestine behind her, she’d come to the realization that the years she had left could be filled with renewed happiness. I thought of my grandmother who had recently and blissfully married the love of her life and I made a wish for Lady Krumley and Mr. Featherstone. I completely forgot that I’d harbored suspicions of her motives for searching out Ernestine, and they didn’t reoccur when I asked Mr. Featherstone if it was possible for me to see her ladyship.

“Or is she in bed?”

“She wouldn’t hear of it and threatened another health episode if anyone brought pressure to bear. You’ll find her in the drawing room with Sir Alfonse. Niles and Cynthia are upstairs in their rooms, but I believe Daisy Meeks is with them. No one in the family had met her prior to a few years ago, when she came on a visit to Moultty Towers and shortly afterward bought a house in the village.” Mr. Featherstone then led me across the hall and walked with me into the drawing room. As on the previous day my appalled gaze fixed on the array of game heads on the walls. All those furry faces with their antlers and reproachful glass eyes! They reduced everything else-including the people in the room-to a backdrop for a powerfully visual appeal for animal rights. I jumped when a voice spoke from a chair near the fireplace.

“Admiring the family portraits?” A man got to his feet. He was of a portly build and of medium height with a head of glossy black curls and a luxuriant moustache. His accent was faintly continental and his attire-a beige linen suit and a yellow and navy blue bow tie-also suggested that he wasn’t English or liked to project the image of a widely traveled man of the world. So this was Sir Alfonse Krumley, inheritor of the title, but not the heir to Moultty Towers.

With his emergence the rest of the room sprang to life. My eyes went to Lady Krumley who beckoned me forward with an imperative hand. Seated beside her on the sofa was Daisy Meeks. Her badly permed hair gave her every right to complain to her hairdresser, but her frumpish frock suggested she had little interest in her appearance. I stood in a whirl of introductions made by her ladyship in a voice charged with vigor and found myself seated in the chair vacated by Sir Alfonse, who remained standing. Mr. Featherstone left us, saying he needed to return to the vicarage and when the door closed behind him the room sank into a silence that had a muffled sort of quality to it. A small fire burned in the very large grate and it wasn’t until a log broke apart with a sharp crack that animation returned with Lady Krumley addressing me in her deep voice, while her black eyes snapped glances at Sir Alfonse and Daisy Meeks.

“So, Mrs. Haskell, how are you proceeding with the plans for the decorating?”

“We’ve come up with some ideas, but this may not be the best time to talk about it with you so upset about your relative’s death.” Would this clue her in that I would return at a more convenient time?

“Alas, poor Vincent! He came to Moultty Towers to meet his fate.” Her ladyship now looked at Sir Alfonse, who was to be congratulated on looking suavely anguished.