The Importance of Being Ernestine (18 page)

Mrs. Malloy and I, in talking over each other, managed to get the point across that we had heard about the tragic death. “Some relation on her husband's side of the family. Just arrived on a visit, wasn't it?”

“A cousin. Mr. Vincent Krumley.”

“And you'll be another member of the family?” Mrs. Malloy was eyeing a narrow table set against the staircase wall as if it and its vase of chrysanthemums might be persuaded to provide some useful titbit of information.

“I'm Laureen Phillips, her ladyship's maid,” she said, still un-smiling and with her arms folded across the gray blouse and cardigan that topped her charcoal skirt, an outfit that could have been a uniform or her personal choice of daily wear. “New to the job, but not the village. I've lived here most of my life.”

“So you're the one that found the missing brooch!” Mrs. Malloy wouldn't have looked quite so thrilled if I'd managed to tread on her foot in time, and I did my best to retrieve the situation.

“Lady Krumley was inclined to ramble during the hour or so we spent with her. . . . The shock of the accident I imagine . . . and the medication she was given. Probably we were talking about redecorating her bedroom at the time. It was there, wasn't it, that the brooch turned up? Much of the time her ladyship was completely coherent. Such as when she asked us to talk with Mrs. Hasty about certain pieces of furniture she would like put back into use.”

“Then it's not for me to say you can't, but I do hope you won't go pestering her to the point where she gets upset.” Laureen's handsome features softened. “She's a dear old soul. Worked hard all her life and been like an auntie to me, which means a lot seeing that I was moved from pillar to post as a child. Come on, I'll take you in to her.” Opening the door to our right, she ushered us into a room with windows at both ends and a fire burning in the small grate under a mantelpiece lined end to end with cheerfully inexpensive figurines. It was altogether a pleasant little space—overfurnished but comfortable as a cat's basket. There was indeed a cat, a large tabby that was possibly a relative of the one we had seen in the kitchen of Moultty Towers. It was curled up on the crocheted blanket covering the knees of the elderly woman seated on the old-fashioned settee. It was a scene of picture-perfect contentment. No one could have looked less like the witch in “Hansel and Gretel” than the snowy-haired little personage with the child-like sparkle to her bright blue eyes.

“Well now, Laureen,” her voice trilled with excitement, “who's this you've brought to see me? A pair of reporters come to ask me about finding the body? And me with my hair not properly combed. But I don't suppose they'll be taking pictures,” she added wistfully.

“Nothing like that, Mrs. Hasty.” The younger woman walked over and adjusted the crocheted blanket. “These ladies are decorators Lady Krumley has hired to do up the main house. And they're wanting to ask you some questions about pieces of furniture you may remember having been there years ago. Her ladyship has a fancy to put some of them back into use if they're still on the premises. Although it does seem to me”—the hazel eyes now struck me as both reflective and shrewd—“the simplest thing would be to take a look at what's up there in the attics.”

“Sometimes asking a few questions of the right person helps speed up the process.” If my response sounded a bit lame to my ears it did not appear to strike Mrs. Hasty as such. Her face creased into a beaming smile, and she said that if this wasn't a day brightener she didn't know what was. At her age it was nice to have a chance to chat about the old days.

“Now what did you ladies say your names was?”

Mrs. Malloy and I duly introduced ourselves and upon her urging sat down in easy chairs across from her. Still looking somewhat dubious Laureen Phillips announced that she would go upstairs and do a little straightening up before returning to the main house.

“A nice girl. Don't know why she isn't off working in some office.” Mrs. Hasty sat stroking the cat after the door closed. “There's not that many that wants to go into service these days. Even in my young days it wasn't most people's first choice. But it was different for me. I grew up in the village. And I didn't see much sense in shelling out bus fare and cutting an hour at least out of me day going back and forth to Mucklesby or some other town to stand on my feet in a shop. Not when I could walk to Moultty Towers in five minutes and end up with same amount of money in me pocket at the end of the week? And, as me old Mum always used to say, there's never been no shame in housework.”

“Truer words was never spoken,” Mrs. Malloy said with the vehemence befitting the chairwoman of the Chitterton Fells Charwomen's Association, but caught herself to add craftily, “Lady Krumley gave us to understand that you started work at the house as the parlour maid.”

“Not me, ducks.” Mrs. Hasty shook her head. “I was the kitchen maid.”

“That's right,” I hesitated, suddenly feeling a strong distaste at the idea of leading this nice old lady down the garden path. This was different from spinning a web of deceit to elicit information from Niles and Cynthia Edmonds, or even Mrs. Beetle. This pansy-faced old lady could be somebody's grandmother. It didn't much help telling myself that the end justified the means, but I forced myself to continue: “I remember Lady Krumley mentioning another girl . . . someone named Flossie. . . . I think that was it.”

“That's right! Flossie Jones! It was her that was the parlour maid.” Mrs. Hasty beamed a smile. “One of you nice ladies wouldn't happen to have a sweet on you, would you now? Ever such a sweet tooth I've got. Not so much for chocolates, but those nice old-fashioned boiled ones.”

“As a matter of fact, you're in luck.” Mrs. Malloy reached into her handbag and produced with a conjuror's flourish the lemon drops she had been dipping into in the car. Teetering onto her high heels, she handed the bag to the old lady, who rummaged around inside before popping one into her mouth. The rustle of paper had disturbed the cat; it sat up to stretch and yawn in a hard-done-by sort of way, before settling back down on her crocheted lap rug. There was a 1940s-style clock on a curio cabinet, and Mrs. Hasty sat sucking contentedly away in time to its rhythmic ticktock. Mrs. Malloy returning to her chair, crossed and recrossed her legs, her false eyelashes flickering with impatience, but I felt it would be a mistake to try and hurry things. Mrs. Hasty helped herself to another sweet before picking up the threads of our conversation.

“Flossie came to work at Moultty Towers shortly before I got married. I was coming up for thirty and she'd have been about twenty-five. It surprised me that she didn't have a ring on her finger, her being as pretty as a picture. But she'd laugh and say she was waiting for a man with one hand on his wallet and one foot in the grave. Always one for a quick answer, was Flossie.”

“And does she still live in the area?” I asked, feeling like the worst kind of slippery slug.

Mrs. Hasty shook her head.

“Oh, what a shame!” Mrs. Malloy sounded convincingly downcast. “Here was us hoping that if you don't know what happened to them pieces of furniture Lady Krumley's so worked up about, this other woman might just possibly have helped us out.”

“Flossie Jones.” Mrs. Hasty sucked away on her lemon drop. “I hadn't went and thought about her in years.”

“One loses touch.” I wondered if I sounded uncomfortable or completely vacuous, and, ignoring Mrs. Malloy's irritated expression, ploughed into a description of the imaginary pieces of furniture that we were supposedly anxious to locate. But my partner need not have got her knickers in a twist. Mrs. Hasty was clearly eager to stick to the subject of her former coworker.

“Died donkey's years ago, did poor Flossie.”

“You don't say!” Mrs. Malloy studied the rings flashing on both her hands. “And her name cropping up over and over again when we saw Lady Krumley in the hospital.”

“It really wasn't the time or place to talk about the redecorating.” I could at least say this with some conviction. “But her ladyship had telephoned to insist on the consultation. It isn't surprising if her mind wandered, causing her to ramble from time to time during our conversation.”

“But why have this Flossie Jones on her mind?” Mrs. Malloy's innocent expression merited an Academy Award.

“There was something about a brooch,” I paused, feeling more treacherous by the moment, and heard a creak outside in the hall. Was Laureen listening at the door? Or was someone else in the cottage? I told myself that I was being silly, that old houses talked to themselves all the time. But even so I shivered at the thought that someone—someone who had already committed murder—was not convinced that Mrs. Malloy and I were who we claimed to be.

Luckily it did not appear that Mrs. Hasty had a suspicious nature. “I'm not surprised Lady Krumley had that brooch on her mind. You see it showed up again a few days ago, near on forty years after it went missing. It was Laureen that found it, stuck behind the skirting board in her ladyship's room.”

“What a nice surprise!” Mrs. Malloy echoed my exclamation.

“Well in one way it was and in another it wasn't.” Mrs. Hasty was sucking on another lemon drop. “Nice for her ladyship to have it back in the family, but too late for her to put matters right with poor Flossie, who she dismissed for stealing it! And her dying like that not long afterward, it doesn't bear thinking about. No wonder her ladyship had that heart attack and went off the road in her car. She must be blaming herself something awful. Although if you ask me it was that snake in the grass Mrs. Snow that fueled the fire! Had it in for Flossie from the word go, she did.”

“Mrs. Snow?” I sat listening for further sounds out in the hall, but heard nothing.

“Her that was the housekeeper back in them days.” Mrs. Hasty stroked the cat. “A big bustling figure of a woman, she was, all got up in black. How she ever got a man to marry her I don't know! If there ever was a Mr. Snow, I never heard mention of him. It was her nephew she would go on about: Arthur or Archibald—something like that—away at some boarding school she was paying for. I remember feeling sorry for the lad, thinking about what he'd have to give in return over the years. But it did get sickening listening to how clever he was, doing sums a page long. Flossie and me, we'd have a bit of a snicker about it. Mrs. Snow did that, brought out the worst in you. And she got to Lady Krumley with her nasty insinuations, made her suspicious of Flossie about . . . this, that and the other.” Mrs. Hasty sighed. Some of the sparkle had gone out of her blue eyes.

“Before the brooch went missing?” I prompted.

“Flossie had a way with men. And it wasn't just her looks. She knew just how to wrap them around her finger. All sugar and spice if you know what I mean. Ernest, the under gardener, was crazy for her. Thought she was going to marry him. I tried to tell him not to take her too serious. That for all her flirty ways the girl had a head on her shoulders and wouldn't settle down until she was ready, not if she hadn't done so till now. But of course he didn't listen. Not to me, or to Mrs. Snow, saying that there was bigger fish in the sea and Flossie was a girl out for the main chance.”

“Eaten up with spite, some people!” Mrs. Malloy with her saintly expression and hat on looked as though she should be seated in church.

“Course I really shouldn't be sitting here gossiping.” Mrs. Hasty displayed less conviction than Mrs. Beetle had done, as she continued to stroke the cat.

“Don't think of it that way. In our business it helps to get a sense of the personalities that have left their imprint on a house.” I spouted this hogwash while again listening for further movement out in the hall. This time I was sure I heard a tiptoed step. My hands clammily gripped the arms of my chair.

“It's got to be said that Sir Horace—Lady Krumley's late husband that is—had taken a fancy to Flossie. But that's not to say there was any funny business going on. And when she let on she was in the family way I never thought about anyone but Ernest being the father. And he wasn't slow at owning up to it.”

“But Mrs. Snow . . . ?” I queried softly.

“Went around hinting at things and giving those sly looks of hers. Oh, I did feel sorry for Lady Krumley, because when someone plants the seed of suspicion, it's hard to get rid of it, isn't it? So when she couldn't find that brooch, well, who could blame a wife—ladyship or not—from seizing the opportunity to get rid of a pretty young woman that she'd been made to believe was a threat to her marriage? Mrs. Snow told Lady Krumley she'd seen Flossie coming out of that room where she'd no business being, so it did look suspicious. And when she wouldn't explain what she was doing there,” Mrs. Hasty looked momentarily doubtful, but concluded stoutly, “I expect her pride was up at the injustice of it all.”

“Sad the way some people treat their household help.” Mrs. M. cast a meaningful look my way. “Sent packing on the spot, was she?”

“Out the door in half an hour, she was.” Mrs. Hasty sucked hard on another lemon drop.

“Did she and Ernest marry?” I could have done with a sweet myself.

“No, ducks. Maybe all the upset turned her a bit funny. She wouldn't have none of him. Fair broke him up, it did. He stayed on for several months . . . close on a year from what I remember, but his work suffered. Too much time spent down the pub, and in the end he was let go too. I've always hoped he got himself sorted out in time and met some other girl that was fond of him, for he weren't a bad-looking lad. Tallish, with the most wonderful head of auburn curls that's I've ever seen on a man. My husband was always a bit thin on top, bless him.”