don’t suppose it’ll catch you all that unawares when I tell you that me and Mrs. H. here have been in the business long enough to put two and two together. Oh, yes! Ever so good at our sums, we are. So instead of you confessing, why don’t we tell you what we think?”
“Yes, why don’t we?” I was all encouragement.
“It’s about a man that showed up waving a gun shortly after Lady Krumley left our office.”
“Do continue,” said Laureen.
“Well, like you can imagine,” Mrs. Malloy continued, preening in her most unbecoming way, “the two of us have been in that situation often enough to know when there’s something that’s not just right. And it seemed to us that on this particular occasion it was what we call a putup job, a sham…”
“A charade.” I felt entitled to put in two words, particularly when I was the one who had originally suggested to Mrs. Malloy that there had been something stagey about Have Gun’s appearance on the scene. I was silenced with a flick of the eyelashes.
“Playacting, that’s what it seemed to us. And this morning you went and let slip that you’d been an actress.”
“I thought I said it straight out.” Laureen bit her lip.
“Very crafty. But I’ll give you this, it wasn’t you playing the gunman. If you was that good, you’d be world famous. In all likelihood it was some fellow actor, possibly a friend, that like you wanted to make sure her ladyship’s talk about Flossie Jones and deathbed curses wouldn’t be dismissed as so much nonsense from an old woman.”
“Who do you think that friend would be?” Laureen sipped her tea.
Mrs. Malloy’s look dared me to get in ahead of her. “The man that disappointed his dear old uncle by going on the stage. Mr. Featherstone the vicar’s nephew, that’s who!”
“His name is Tom Stillwaters.”
“Runs deep, does he?”
“He’s not much of an actor.”
“But a nice man and you’re fond of him.” Mrs. Malloy wiped the smirk off her face. She was always susceptible to the whiff of romance, even when she was not the party involved.
“And he’s devoted to Mr. Featherstone.”
“Who in his turn,” I said, “is devoted to Lady Krumley.”
“He’s in love with her, always has been. She must be the only one who doesn’t seem to know. Never having been a beauty, or even verging on pretty, it probably wouldn’t occur to her that any man could live out his life harboring a grand unrequited passion for her-certainly not a clergyman. They’re not supposed to be that sort, are they?” Laureen pushed away her teacup. “And from the sound of it, Sir Horace never did much to boost her self- esteem as a woman. Tom overheard his uncle talking to Lady Krumley about her disappointment with a private detective. He was clearly afraid that she was working herself into such a state of agitation over her feelings of guilt toward Flossie that she would have another heart attack. One that might prove fatal. And when I told Mr. Featherstone what I knew about the brooch he became even more concerned. He agreed that someone seemed bent on malicious, wicked mischief. Tom and I knew we had to do something. And the scheme popped into our heads.”
“It was foolish and dangerous.” Mrs. Malloy peeked into her compact mirror and adjusted her hat. “It could have been me and Mrs. H. here that got the heart attacks, if we wasn’t the professionals we are. But seeing as how you’ve tried to be helpful, we’ll say all’s forgiven and go on from here. If that waitress ever shows up with the bill, that is.”
Taking the hint I reached into my bag for my purse while Mrs. Malloy assured Laureen that there was no need for her to contribute toward the pot of tea, because the meal would go on the expense account. This sounded all well and good until I reminded myself that we wouldn’t receive a penny from Lady Krumley until we found Ernestine. Would locating her lead us any closer to the shadowy figure who was responsible for putting her ladyship in a hospital bed?
This topic was the focus of conversation between Mrs. Malloy and me as we drove out of Biddlington-By-Water and took the road to Mucklesby, which was the shortest way back to Chitterton Fells. It was now 2:30 in the afternoon, and I was eager to be home with Ben and the children. I wasn’t used to being gone for most of the day. But when I came to Hathaway Road, a street lined with late Victorian houses about a mile from Jugg’s Detective Agency, I slowed the car and turned the corner.
“Remember,” I said, “this is where Mrs. Hasty said Flossie had her bed-sitter.”
“Of course I do.” Mrs. M. had her nose pressed to the car window. “Look, there it is. That’s the house, number twenty-one. Stop! There’s a woman coming out the door.”
“And what’s she going to be able to tell us?”
“Probably not much. But it don’t hurt to ask, does it?” She was using her wheedling tone, which always reduced me to meekness. But whether or not I was destined for regret on this occasion remained to be seen.
Seventeen
“Can I help you?” The woman walked toward us as we stood hovering by her front gate like a pair of diffident souls expecting to be told by St. Peter that they had come to the wrong place and if we didn’t buzz off he would have to summon the man in charge.
“This is a long shot,” I said, smiling into the pleasant friendly face, “but we were wondering if you might happen to know who owned this property forty years ago. You see we’re trying to trace someone who lived here back then. I’m not explaining very well. It was only for a short time-a matter of months while she was a baby. Her mother was a young single girl, who died.”
“When the house was broken up into bed-sitters?”
“That’s right.” Mrs. Malloy rested her handbag atop the gate.
“And the mother’s name?”
“Flossie Jones.” I felt a little bubble of excitement rise in my throat.
“Well, Florence really,” said Mrs. Malloy. “The way we understand it she came here before she had the baby. But of course it’s a long time ago and as my colleague here was saying it’s a bit much to hope you can help us.”
“How are the two of you involved?”
“We’re private detectives. Look, hold on a tick, I’ll show you me card.” Mrs. Malloy rummaged inside her handbag. “We’d be standing here all day if we waited for Mrs. H. to find hers. That’s teamwork for you. I keep us organized, and she does most of the legwork. Me knees isn’t what they once was, you’ll be sorry to hear. But I just couldn’t abide to sit put at the office for this case, not when we’ve gone and promised a very ill old lady that we’ll find Flossie Jones’s daughter for her. You see there’s an inheritance involved. And our client won’t die easy until everything’s settled.” While rattling away Mrs. Malloy had flashed the card, which I knew from its pale lavender color to be her membership card for the Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association. Fortunately our new acquaintance failed to peruse the fine print. Looking duly impressed she opened the garden gate and beckoned us to come inside.
“A inheritance you say, for that little baby!”
“If we can locate her.” I felt the excitement bubble grow bigger. This woman had information. It might not be much, but anything was better than nothing. Maybe it would turn out that we hadn’t done Lady Krumley a major disservice by taking on the case. Maybe in finding Ernestine we could prevent another murder. I reminded myself that we still had a long way to go, but it was difficult not to do a jig on the path.
“We are talking about a great deal of money.” Mrs. Malloy compressed her lips as if the mentioning of it were somehow irreverent.
“How lovely! And won’t my parents be delighted!” The woman beamed over her shoulder as she led us to the house with its stained glass panels on either side of the front door and lace curtains at the windows.
“Your parents?” I was saying as we entered the hall dominated by a rather dark staircase with massive newel posts.
