sipped her brandy. “You often meet such interesting people at these places. But the most depressingly dedicated woman ran this one like a reform school. And every single person there wanted to be helped. Well, of course so did I, but not all at once or quite so thoroughly. I tried to escape from my third floor window. There was the nicest oak tree right outside, but some horrible do-gooder dragged me back in. After that I was watched all the time. It wasn’t until this morning that I was able to get away after managing to sound the fire alarm. That created just enough chaos to give me a headstart down the drive to the road, where I hitchhiked a lift to the closest town from a passing lorry driver. And I’ve been thumbing my way here ever since.”
“What’s the name of this place?” Ben asked.
“The Waysiders. It’s not a religious based setup, but I suppose it comes from the Bible, rescuing those that fall by the wayside.”
“Freddy thought it was a pub,” I said.
Aunt Lulu was beginning to revive, and the dimples appeared in her cheeks when she smiled. “My son’s not just a pretty face. He must have been thinking of ‘Tales from a Wayside Inn’.”
“Yes, now I think about it he did say something about Longfellow the other day.” My voice was drowned out by Freddy’s eruption into the room from the hall. While he and his mother were falling into each other’s arms Ben was filling another brandy glass. I reached into my skirt pocket to pull out the piece of paper on which I had written the address and phone number of the charitable organization where Kathleen Ambleforth’s cousin Alice had dispatched the items from Ben’s study.
It was as I thought. They had gone to The Waysiders, 109 Bottlecreek Road, Battersea. Looking at Aunt Lulu’s now beaming face as Freddy set her back on her feet after a prolonged hug, I decided it might be best not to mention my connection to her when I telephoned to plead my case.
Nineteen
“I do wish you’d make up your ruddy mind.” Mrs. Malloy had replenished her handbag with another bag of lemon drops and was sucking fiercely away as we drove through a green light that shone palely through the mist. “This morning it’s Ernestine that’s the villain of the piece. And that’s after you saying the other day Lady Krumley could be telling fibs about her reasons for wanting to find the poor unsuspecting woman-to say she’s sorry and wants to leave her gobs of money in her will. When,” she continued, cheek bulging, “what she was really after was to get Ernestine out of the picture for good and all, for reasons that aren’t nearly so nice.”
“For all we know that may still be the case,” I replied soothingly. “I merely suggested we look at the situation from the opposing angle. We’ve taken her ladyship’s word that she, not Sir Horace, was the one who brought the money into the marriage. But what if she’s lying about that? Or she signed her fortune over to him at some point in their marriage?”
“So that she gets to live on the income but hasn’t a dickie bird to say about who gets what when she kicks the bucket.” Mrs. Malloy shook her head at the vagaries of life.
“Meaning,” I replied, turning on the car lights as the mist briefly thickened to fog, “Sir Horace could have left a will making Ernestine the major beneficiary, under certain circumstances, such as if other family members had died off first.”
“He could even have put her ahead of some on the list. Daddies can be quite soppy about their little girls.” Mrs. Malloy rustled into the bag for another lemon drop. “Me own father couldn’t bear to deny me nothing. Called me his Little Twinkle Toes, he did. Course Mum had to go and say that was because he couldn’t never remember me name. And, to be fair, he was like Sir Horace, not rushing to accept his responsibilities at the beginning. Then again, knowing Mum, he couldn’t be blamed for not being quite sure, not until anyone with eyes in their head could see I was his spitting image. Ooh, but he was a handsome man, me Dad!”
I waited until the count of ten to make sure she was finished before picking up the threads of how Sir Horace might have left things in his will. “Supposing Niles Edmonds, of whom Lady Krumley appears to be fond, would only come into a fortune if Ernestine predeceased him? That would provide her ladyship with an incentive for finding her husband’s love child and making sure she comes to grief.”
“Well, there you are, then Mrs. H.” Mrs. Malloy shook her fist out the window at a cyclist who was weaving along side of us. “You’ve gone and talked yourself right round. And a good thing too, because I don’t think it right trying to make poor little Ernestine into a murderess after all she’s been through. Besides, I’ve quite set me heart on it being that Cynthia-a right nasty piece if ever there was one, ranting on about the hairdresser messing up her new do, and not a word about how nice I looked in my hat. I’d feel quite sorry for her husband if he wasn’t such a weasel. Last night I got to thinking, as I laid in bed drinking me gin and tonic, that it was most likely him we heard her talking to in the bedroom. But not being one to think meself the big know-it-all, I’m quite prepared to try and see things your way.”
“About what?”
“Lady Krumley playing us for fools.” Mrs. M. shook her head. Today she was wearing a cherry red hat and her fake leopard coat. “It could’ve been her Cynthia was talking to on the telephone, letting her know what she’d seen.”
“Her ladyship dropping Vincent down the well before setting off in the car for Mucklesby?” I slowed for a stop sign.
“It would explain the flower pots, wouldn’t it?” Mrs. Malloy sucked on another lemon drop. “Those two boys- Ronald Thatcher and his little mate-saw what happened and being frightened, ran off, is my guess, but when the car drove past them they went into a rage.”
“Surely if they’d witnessed the murder they would have run and reported it to Ronald’s father or the first person they saw. There might even have been a chance of getting to Vincent Krumley while he was still alive.”
“They’re kiddies. They panicked, wasn’t thinking straight. And now Ronald’s having them nightmares thinking about what he should have done. But afraid to speak out for fear of being blamed.”
“Isn’t it more likely that they saw something that upset them, without their realizing its full significance until later, when word spread about the purported accident?” I drove cautiously past a car that was crawling along in the mist.
“Have to nitpick don’t you?” Mrs. M. folded her gloved hands over her handbag. “What we needs to do is talk to them two boys. As quick as possible too. Because the way things stand, I wouldn’t place any bets on Cynthia keeping her next appointment for a wash and set. Now you could say, Mrs. H., as that would be doing the chap that fixes her hair a favor, but we can’t go getting too softhearted. We’ve just got to swallow our feelings and do our professional best to keep the woman from getting herself murdered.”
“Maybe we should have gone to Moultty Towers before coming here.” We had now entered Chandlers Point, a market town situated midway between Chitterton Fells and Mucklesby. This was where Ernestine’s adoptive parents lived. Mrs. Malloy had informed me on entering the car that she had telephoned them the previous evening. “Mr. Merryweather sounded surprised to learn I was a private detective wishing to talk to him and his wife about their daughter, and he kindly gave me directions to their house.” She proceeded to reel off to the accompaniment of much hand waving.
“Keep going down the High Street, Mrs. H., till you pass Woolworth’s on the right… or would it be the left? Never mind, it has to be one or the other, don’t it? And then you’ll see a florist. You just went by it. No, don’t back up! Keep going another hundred yards and turn left onto Seashell Crescent and the house is… right there. Not the one with the green front door, the one next to it: number seventeen with the curtains like bunched up petticoats at the windows and all them gnomes in the garden. Now I do hope you won’t go in there looking like you can’t stop thinking about that film
“You have my word,” I promised meekly while turning off the ignition.
“As I said, I’d rather it wasn’t Ernestine herself up to tricks.” Mrs. Malloy came around the car to join me on the pavement. “I suppose it comes from picturing her as that poor little baby, but that’s not to say me hard-nosed objectivity has gone out the window.” She eyed me severely from under neon-coated lids. “I’ve been Milk Jugg’s right hand long enough to know, you can’t overlook a single possibility. Everyone’s a suspect. Course, I can’t help thinking that could be because the job pays more that way, if you bill by the number, I mean. So, even if it is strictly for business reasons, we got to include Laureen Phillips and Mrs. Beetle.”
