call this minute, trotting up and downstairs with cups of tea and extra pillows for her poor old back. And then there’s someone like Milk”-she threw out a hand, knocking over the salt shaker that I had just set up in position-“off doing what real men do: getting mugged in alleyways and boozing it up in some back room. It just don’t seem fair.”
“You’re right. It isn’t the least bit fair to Lady Krumley that we’re playacting at handling her case because we’ve no means of getting in touch with Mr. Jugg, who must surely have enough credibility with the police to get them to take a closer look at Vincent Krumley’s death. He might also tell us how to set about finding Ernestine pronto.” In my agitation I shot back in my chair and pilloried the waitress.
“You all right, ducks?” Mrs. Malloy asked her. “There’s not room to swing a cat round in here. Now, what was it we was saying, Mrs. H.?” She began unbuttoning her raincoat as the woman sucked in her stomach and sidestepped away.
“That you and I are caught up in something we’re not equipped to handle.”
“Rubbish! Faint hearts never won diddle, let alone the five thousand pound her ladyship has promised us. I’d say we’ve made a lot of headway in one morning, what with Laureen Phillips falling all over herself to spill the beans. And we’d do a lot better if you’d stop fixing on piddly stuff like who’s got a nephew and who hasn’t. Now, don’t go telling me it’s always them little details that helps solve the case in detective stories. I know that and I’m not saying they aren’t important in real life, but the point is we need to keep our eyes on the big picture first and then see how and where the small things fit in to be important. If they do, which probably most of them don’t, being mainly red herrings as they say. Ooh, and that does make me think…”
“What?” I leaned forward hoping to hear that she’d just had a brilliant revelation as to who was the most likely person behind all the peculiar goings-on at Moultty Towers.
“That I could kill for a couple of kippers with poached eggs on top.”
“Is that all?”
“You rather I dropped dead of hunger before Laureen Phillips shows up?”
“If she ever does. Maybe she’s had second thoughts.” Not so, it would seem. I glimpsed a shadow, felt rather than heard someone approach our table, and a moment later Laureen Phillips, wearing a raincoat gaped open to reveal her gray blouse and cardigan, sat down.
“Sorry I’m late, ladies,” she said. “I ran into Mrs. Thatcher outside the corner shop. She was going in to pick up a comic for her son who’s home from school with an upset tummy.”
“Thatcher.” Mrs. Malloy sat looking wise beyond her years (which were always open to interpretation). “Now would she be the constable’s wife?”
“That’s right.” Laureen broke off when the waitress hobbled our way and asked what we would have. Mrs. M. and I settled on sausage, baked beans and chips, that being all that was left on the menu, and a pot of tea to be shared with Laureen who said she didn’t have time for anything else. “And anyway I had a slice of toast while getting Mrs. Hasty’s lunch. She was in a chatty mood after her nap, and I didn’t like to rush away after the shock she’s taken. It’s a wonder she isn’t having nightmares along with Ronald.”
“Ronald?” I wished I could look as intelligent as Mrs. Malloy, who now sat pouring our tea from an earthenware pot almost as big as the table.
“The Thatchers’ boy. He’s nine-years-old and has proved a bit of a handful, having been one of those change- of-life surprise packages and coming after three model brothers, all of them grown up now and living away from home. But if you ask me he’s not a bad kid. He comes over to see Mrs. Hasty quite often. Well, mostly he comes to see the cat.” Laureen smiled, and I decided that, unprofessional though it might be, I liked her, and surely a private detective had to sometimes rely on instinct. “Ronald’s desperate for a cat or a dog, but his father says he can’t have one until he demonstrates some responsibility and maturity. So I don’t give much for his chances at the moment.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“And what does it have to do with the case?” Mrs. Malloy frowned so severely that the waitress inquired in a trembling voice if the meals she had set down looked all right. It took my raptures over the burnt sausages to get her to hobble away. And then my heart went with her, so that it took me a moment to refocus.
“I’m not sure.” Laureen sat sipping her tea.
“You said that Ronald’s been having nightmares,” I said, “and now he’s home from school with an upset tummy. I used to get them as a child when I was worried about something.”
“The kid should be worried. He’s in big trouble with his dad for throwing a flower pot at Lady Krumley’s car the day before yesterday when she was driving past the green.” Laureen looked toward the cafe window. “There was another boy, a classmate of Ronald’s, who was in on it. They were on their school dinner hour, and Constable Thatcher saw what happened and chased them down.”
“Her ladyship mentioned the incident.” I laid down the knife and fork I had just picked up. “It made her late for her appointment. She had to stop at a garage to get her car window temporarily fixed.”
“Mrs. Thatcher said that if her husband had realized Lady Krumley was driving the car he would have checked first to make sure that she was alright before leaving the scene. I imagine,” Laureen shrugged, “that he was in such a temper that he wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Your bringing this up explains something Mrs. Beetle, the cook, had to say when we was talking to her earlier.” Mrs. Malloy had polished off her sausages and chips and most of her baked beans.
“That’s right,” I said, “she mentioned that Constable Thatcher hadn’t been informed of Vincent Krumley’s death when he showed up at Moultty Towers.”
“On the night in question”-Mrs. Malloy reached out a fork to spear one of my sausages-“he got a phone call about it just after he arrived. So something else brought him to the house. Must have been to own up to his son’s naughty behavior and find out how her ladyship was doing. Who’d be a parent? Quite makes up me mind for me, I’m not having no more kids.”
Laureen smiled, but I didn’t dare.
“Did the boy say why he and his friend threw those flower pots at the car?” I asked Laureen.
“No.”
“And his father, a policeman, can’t get it out of him?”
“That’s what’s got Mrs. Thatcher so worried. Usually Frank’s only got to look at the boy to get at the truth. She thinks Ronald’s frightened… badly frightened. She said it could be of the other boy. He’s almost a year older and much bigger than Ronald, and Mrs. Thatcher-as most mothers would-thinks he’s the ringleader. But she is also wondering if it has something to do with Vincent Krumley’s death.”
“Now, what makes her think that?” Mrs. M. poured more tea.
“It’s not just the nightmares. Ronald’s been talking in his sleep. Muttering stuff about the old man and the dog.”
“What does his father say?” I asked.
“That he should be having nightmares after what he did.”
“And the other boy isn’t talking?”
“Not a word. His parents are saying it was all Ronald’s fault, along with Frank’s for being too strict.” Laureen spooned sugar into her cup. “I’m afraid those two boys came over to see Mrs. Hasty and the cat, or to play in the copse, and saw something they are now afraid to talk about.”
“Did you say that to Mrs. Thatcher?” I had finished as much as I could of my meal.
“No, she was already upset. And I could be wrong. Maybe the two incidents, Ronald’s hooliganism and Mr. Krumley’s death, which is of course the talk of the village, get mixed up in his head while he’s sleeping. Perhaps he’s heard it said that Vincent was a heavy drinker and not much good for anything, and he’s scared in case it really is true that people who do bad things come to a bad end.” Laureen pulled a wry face and said that if such were indeed the case she was in deep trouble.
“You’ve lost me, ducky.” Mrs. Malloy eyed her sternly.
“Sorry. I’m bracing up to getting the topic back to the reason I asked you both to meet me here.” The smile was still in place and included me. “I want to confess.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” Mrs. Malloy opened her handbag with the exaggeratedly casual air of one about to whip out a gun. It was a little disappointing when she produced a tissue instead and dabbed her lips. “And would there be an accomplice involved in this confession? The same person you mentioned as having, along with yourself, made the mistake of thinking Lady Krumley had gone to see a man detective? The world’s full of surprises, isn’t it? But I
