Dorothy Cannell - The Importance of Being Ernestine

My place was at home with the husband who might at this moment be planning to divorce me if I did not restore his study to what he considered its old world charm. The fact that I couldn’t at that moment quite remember what he looked like did not stop me from deciding to telephone Kathleen Ambleforth, the vicar’s wife, to ask her to return the items that she had assured me, with such grateful enthusiasm, would do very nicely for St. Anselm’s annual charity drive. Kathleen I could picture all too well. She has a grimly controlled temper behind her brisk smile. Taking a firmer grip of the desk, it seemed to me the better part of cowardice to focus on returning Lady Krumley’s blank stare.

She was, to put it as kindly as possible, a horse-faced woman beset with an oversized Roman nose, a sloping chin and hooded eyes, so dark as to be almost black. But perhaps when my head cleared she would improve. At the moment her hair was undoubtedly her best feature. It was was thick and coarse and either from art or nature mahogany in color, with only a touch of gray at the temples. She wore it wound in a thick coil topped by the 1940s-style hat.

Undoubtedly, Kathleen Ambleforth would have coveted that hat for the charity drive. I focused on it in an attempt to stop the walls revolving and prayed that Mrs. Malloy would do nothing to distract me. No use hoping for miracles. She wasn’t about to fade gracefully into the woodwork. Not while wearing the pink angora sweater that looked as though it had been stolen from Marilyn Monroe, or the miniskirt that might once have been one leg of a pair of boy’s shorts. The wretched woman was all bounce and enthusiasm as she informed her ladyship that it didn’t matter a whit that it was now 9:00 and Mr. Jugg had left for the day.

“Better late than never,” she batted her false eyelashes. At least you’re here on your own two feet. Not in a bag with your arms being used for straps.”

“Most kind!” came the quavering reply.

“And don’t you go worrying your old head that there’s only me and Mrs. Haskell to help sort out the problem that’s got you into a state of fear and trembling, Lady Krumley.” The obnoxiously bracing voice floated somewhere to my left.

“Mrs. Who?” Her ladyship opened her hooded lids a crack and surveyed me down the full length of that unfortunate nose. Her expression could have devoured at least three scullery maids, but her tone was bemused. She was coming back to life, slowly if surely.

“Haskell,” chirped Mrs. Malloy, before I could get my lips unstuck.

“And she is?” The look directed my way registered the suspicion that I was tragically mute.

“Another of me lovely employers.” A technically accurate but completely misleading reply delivered by Mrs. Malloy.

Lady Krumley straightened in her chair, her eyes suddenly snapping with inquiry. “This person,” waving a gloved hand that missed me by inches, “is Mr. Jugg’s business partner? But I had understood from the worthy source who suggested I seek assistance here that Mr. Jugg was a sole practitioner in the private detective business.”

“Mrs. Haskell hasn’t been on the scene long.” Mrs. Malloy stood to my right on her high heels looking the picture of truth and rectitude. This was the moment for me to take a stand. Instead, as the floor began to tilt like the Titanic, I was forced to sit down and press a hand to my mouth.

“Looks a decent person. Nicely enough dressed for a woman of her stamp. Neat sort of hairstyle. Nothing too modern.” Her ladyship was stripping off her gloves as she spoke and stowing them away in the handbag. “And who might you be, if it’s not too complicated to explain?”

“Roxie Malloy, Mr. Jugg’s Girl Friday.”

Her ladyship appraised Mrs. M. in all her blonde-headed glory. “My pleasure. Although I must say that skirt’s far too short and I have always believed pink to be a debutante’s color. Still, I suppose one might justifiably suggest I am out of step with the modern generation.”

Mrs. Malloy, who had abruptly stopped preening, brightened.

“My late husband, Sir Horace, occasionally cautioned me to moderate my opinions.” Her ladyship shifted her carpet bag from her black-clad knees to the floor. “But we will however, come to him in due time. As I was saying I hadn’t anticipated confiding in more than one pair of ears. To be frank, it never crossed my mind that Mr. Jugg would have a secretary or whatever they’re called these days, let alone a partner.” Lady Krumley looked around the office with its bare bones furnishings, uncurtained, night-darkened windows and the motley assortment of plants. Even my blurred vision took in the fact that the plastic ones looked as if they needed watering and the real ones appeared horribly fake. Clearly Lady Krumley, who undoubtedly had her own conservatory back at the ancestral hole, as my cousin Freddy would call it, was under no delusions that she was visiting Kew Gardens.

“The person who gave me the direction to this detective agency advised me that Mr. Jugg was very much a lone wolf,” she continued in an increasingly robust voice. “But we never know all there is to know about anyone, do we, even when the relationship’s of considerable duration?”

Mrs. M., for reasons I was unable to fathom, again looked put out. But she kept her voice affable. “Now don’t you go being afraid, old ducks-meaning your ladyship-to spill the beans about what brings you here,” She eyed the butts in the ashtray, but whether because she suddenly noticed they looked and smelled disgusting or because she was dying for a puff, I couldn’t tell. “Discretion’s the name of the game here at Jugg’s Detective Agency. Always has been, always will be. Milk’s been in the business a long time.”

“Milk?” Her ladyship raised an inquiring eyebrow. “I wasn’t given to understand he was also in the dairy business.”

“It’s his nickname.” I cautiously supplied this tidbit.

“Ah, yes. I do see.”

“Course only them closest to him use it regular like. But call him what you will. Doesn’t mean the man don’t know that one wrong word in the wrong ears could have some very nasty results.” To illustrate her point, Mrs. Malloy drew a finger across her throat. A gesture wasted on her ladyship who directed her hooded gaze at me.

“I suppose it helps, in that regard, his partner being a mute.”

Which of course completely took my voice away. Not so Mrs. Malloy. She tossed her blond locks, fluttered her heavily blackened lashes and giggled like a fifteen-year-old. “Got a sense of humor, haven’t you, ducks? Course Mrs. Haskell can talk. Shell-shocked, that’s what she is at this minute. Just come in from a nasty showdown between a husband and wife over some missing property. Very unpleasant these domestic situations can turn. I’ll not say no more, but I’m sure you can picture it.”

Clearly Lady Krumley could. The bullet holes in the library wainscoting, the bloodstains on the Persian carpet, the family dog covering its face with its paws in the corner, to say nothing of the body that would have to be temporarily put in the sideboard if the bridge game was to begin on time. I made the mistake of looking at the ashtray and another chance to speak up was lost.

“Horrible stuff we see in this business.” Mrs. M. looked positively blissful. “Still, no disrespect to Milk, some jobs in this business are best left to women is what I say. Can’t expect a man to really understand the female viewpoint, now can you?”

“You may be right.” Her ladyship’s eyelids narrowed. “Even my dear Horace was not always sensitive to my way of looking at things. Indeed, part of my reason for being late for my appointment was that I lost track of time wondering if Mr. Jugg would dismiss my fears as flights of feminine fantasy.”