Dorothy Cannell - The Importance of Being Ernestine

“I was fond of the old roue.” The foreign accent deepened, the moustache quivered and the rather protuberant dark eyes moistened to a shining gloss. “Many’s the night we sat in a Parisian nightclub, discoursing on the most eclectic of subjects-Russian art, the advent of Esperanto, the proper making of porridge. A man of many parts was Vincent. Do we remember him as a drunkard, a gambler or do we recall only what was in him sublime? His devotion to that little dog?”

As if summoned to contribute to this eulogy, Pipsie, if I remembered the name rightly, appeared out of nowhere to leap at a linen trouser leg and begin devouring what I guessed, from the forthcoming reaction, to be a cherished cuff. Far from smiling fondly down at Vincent Krumley’s dog, Sir Alfonse attempted to shake it off with a vengeance, and I thought I caught words, “revolting animal.” Meanwhile Daisy Meeks had entered the conversation in a small flat voice that strained the ears of her listeners.

“What’s comforting is that we were all together when Vincent passed away.”

“We weren’t all with him,” Lady Krumley contradicted. “And he didn’t pass away. He went down a well.”

“What I meant to say,” Daisy continued, shuffling her feet away from Pipsie who was trying to burrow under the sofa, “is we were all with him the night before he left this earth.”

“He hasn’t left it.” Lady Krumley was growing more provoked, which explained perhaps why she hadn’t thought to ask me to return at a more convenient time or suggested that the other two leave us to talk. “He’s still on a slab in the morgue. That’s what we’ve been sitting here talking about: how to get him buried.”

“Before he get’s too well settled in and refuses to move.” This quip from Sir Alfonse was in line with his initial remark to me about the family portraits. Clearly the man prized his sense of humor as much as his trousers. I was sure that there were women somewhere who would appreciate his well-practiced charm.

“We must decide on the hymns for the funeral,” barked Lady Krumley.

“It’s some consolation to remember how much he enjoyed the stew Mrs. Beetle made for dinner that night.” Daisy turned to me. “Do you make stew?”

“Yes.”

“The coffin must be selected,” her ladyship addressed Sir Alfonse.

“May I lift that burden from you, Aunt Maude? I believe I know just what Vincent would like.”

“That’s all very well but I don’t think we can put him in a brandy cask.” Lady Krumley’s hooded eyelids were beginning to droop.

“I always put turnips in my stew.”

“If you would also be so good, Alfonse, as to arrange for the flowers.”

“And a couple of bay leaves.”

“The service is set for noon, followed by internment in the family plot.” Her ladyship’s voice had grown gravelly with fatigue.

“We must make it an occasion. It’s what Vincent would have wanted.” Sir Alfonse turned away to hide his emotion.

“And a little garlic powder.”

Not having known Vincent Krumley I didn’t have a clue what he would have wanted for his funeral, but I was beginning to wonder if he really had been the doddering old duffer her ladyship had described to Mrs. Malloy and me at the hospital. She had talked about his being muddled in his perceptions. But had he been wrong about Cynthia having been a go-go dancer? And had he said Daisy Meeks had a twin as reported by her ladyship, or that he hoped she didn’t have a twin? Words get altered in the recounting. Or elaborated upon.

At the moment when I realized Lady Krumley was soundly asleep Watkins entered the room to inform me that Mrs. Malloy was waiting for me in the hall. After making my farewells to Sir Alfonse and Daisy Meeks, I joined her and made all speed out to the car.

“Well,” I asked as we drove off down the drive, “did you talk to Ronald Thatcher?”

“Didn’t I say I would?” She was looking unbearably smug.

“And?”

“And what?”

“Were you able to get anything useful out of him?”

“Enough to make we wonder if we haven’t found our murderer. But I wouldn’t want to start discussing it today, Mrs. H., if you’re not in the mood.” She proceeded to make a production out of going into her bag and taking out a lemon drop. Of course I was consumed with curiosity, but when she added insult to injury I responded in my own mean-spirited way.

“I don’t suppose Ronald gave you Ernestine’s address?” I deserved to be punished for that, but God is remarkably forgiving. When I got home Ben came out of the study to provide me with a vital piece of information that he’d found on the internet while playing, as he cheerfully told me, on his wonderful new computer.

“That’s nice, dear.” I did my wifely best to sound excited.

“I looked to see if the Waysiders had a Web page or whatever it’s called, Ellie. And low and behold I came upon the name Ernestine Merryweather. She runs the place. She’s the woman who may have frightened Aunt Lulu into going straight rather than be returned to reform school. Of course,” he put his arm around me, “She may not be your Ernestine.”

“She’d jolly well better be,” I said, “or I’ll set Pipsie the Maltese terrier on her. That little dog is itching to make someone pay for Vincent Krumley’s death. And I would just as soon it wasn’t me or Mrs. Malloy.”

It was the following evening and Mrs. Malloy and I were having a last cup of tea before what we hoped would be the final scene in the melodrama being enacted at Moultty Towers. We were in her tiny kitchen, with its bead curtain screening the washing machine from view. The dangling fringe on the tablecloth and the red shaded lamp always reminded me of a fortuneteller’s parlor. Usually I didn’t mind the absence of a crystal ball, but at this moment it would have been helpful. We had spent the day getting everything set up and had been fortunate in the cooperation we had received from those we had assigned as stage managers. Mrs. Malloy and I had divided up the workload and were fairly well satisfied that we had everything covered. All-important had been Lady Krumley’s eventual willingness to accept our hypothesis, for that’s all it was up to this point. The information given to Mrs. Malloy by young Ronald Thatcher had convinced us as to the who, and last night had been spent putting together all those bits and pieces that seemed to provide us with the why. This was still a far cry from hard evidence, leaving us dependent on squeezing out a confession. That’s where the difficulty had been with her ladyship. It had been necessary to convince her that the dark forces she had talked about so often were clothed in human flesh. Not being confident that Mrs. Malloy or I would be able to bring her over to this way of thinking, I had telephoned Mr. Featherstone and enlisted his help. He promised, with his old world courtesy, to do his best. Within two hours he rang back to say that Lady Krumley had responded to the effect that there was no point in hiring a pair of private detectives and barking oneself. He wasn’t certain that she had given up on Flossie’s deathbed curse, but we had her agreement to stage our scene in the drawing room at Moultty Towers at 8:00 that evening.

“Very kind of the reverend to pitch in.” Mrs. Malloy stirred her tea. She looked very much the fortuneteller in her black taffeta dress with the jet beading. The silk turban perched on her blonde curls heightened the impression. “But then he, being a man in love, was ready and eager to help. It was different with Constable Thatcher. I had to exercise all the force of me personality to bring him into line. But after I mentioned what a shame it would be if Lady Krumley pressed charges against his Ronald and the other boy for throwing them flower pots, he came round very nicely. Course, Mrs. H., I’m not saying I had him a hundred percent convinced his son had spotted a murderer laying the groundwork, so to speak. But my guess is there’s now this question mark in his mind. Would be nice if it’d light up and flash and go Bing! Bing! every so often, but medical science hasn’t progressed that far. They’re too busy cloning sheep and other such silliness.”