The Importance of Being Ernestine (25 page)

“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
The Bad Seed.
”

“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.”

We were at the front door, and I had just rung the bell. Before she could say more we were being ushered into a fun fair hall of mirrors. The number of fractured images flashing at us from all sides was disorientating. Adding to the kaleidoscope effect was the Hawaiian shirt worn by Mr. Merryweather. It was an intense blue, patterned with teacup-sized flowers and birds of paradise. He was short and stout with tufts of wiry gray hair surrounding a bald pate. His complexion was brick colored and he was beaming at Mrs. Malloy and me as though we were a pair of long-lost relatives.

“What a pleasure! The wife has been on pins and needles. Was up at 6:00 this morning getting ready for you. Just a few scones and a loaf of plum bread. She loves to cook, always has done, as you can see from looking at me!” He patted his protruding tum. “Do let me take you into the sitting room. She'll be fussing with the cushions. You know what women are like. Well, of course you do!” His chesty chuckle carried with it a whiff of cigar smoke heavily scented with what the Reverend Ambleforth would refer to, in his most dubious voice, as “strong spirits.” I could not fail to notice Mrs. Malloy's suddenly hopeful expression, given that it was reflected from all angles in the assembly line of mirrors. And, if anything, she looked even more optimistic when Mrs. Merryweather came toddling toward us, with hands outstretched and a smile as broad as the River Thames. This roly-poly woman, sporting the oversized cherry-framed glasses and a shift that screamed Hawaii even louder than her husband's shirt, exuded a hospitality that would extend beyond a cup of tea to accompany the scones and plum bread. Indeed a glass-fronted liquor cabinet, displaying an impressive array of bottles and glasses, was prominently positioned in the room.

“It's very good of you to see us.” I included husband and wife in my smile, which was somewhat constrained by the anguish of having my fingers squeezed in a vicelike grip that didn't quite go with Mrs. Merryweather's baby pink lipstick and lavender hair. Then again, she had a marvelous golden tan, meaning she might be seriously outdoorsy, setting up her tanning bed on the lawn at every available opportunity. One just never knew about people. She might even be a keen rider like Cynthia Edmonds, a thought that brought with it a prickle of unease, along with a desire to speed up this meeting with the Merryweathers and immediately report our findings to . . . whom? Lady Krumley? I wasn't sure. If only, I thought, while my eyes traveled around the lime green walls to light on a painting of a fleshy nude woman with a ribald smirk who might not be, but probably was, Mrs. Merryweather, someone would kick in the door, and that someone would turn out to be Milk Jugg, intent on taking over the case on his terms with no further interference from a rank pair of amateurs. It was a lovely thought.

“Fancy you two ladies being private detectives.” Mr. Merryweather had wheeled a tea trolley alongside the sofa and was handing us little plates and paper serviettes. “Never a dull moment, cracking cases the police aren't up to, bringing families back together.” He sighed inexplicably. “Now what will it be, scones or plum bread?”

“Would you listen to Frank!” His wife flapped her pudgy little paws at him while winking at Mrs. Malloy and me. “Have both and come back for more. And be sure and pile on the butter. We don't do margarine in this house, not any more that is.” Her expression faltered as she caught her husband's eye. “There's jam if you'd like it in the dish and,” she added, toddling toward the liquor cabinet, “how about we go wild and have a glass of something?”

“Just to celebrate.” Mr. Merryweather was now winking at her, rather frantically it seemed to me. Either that, or he had something in his eye. “Unless you two ladies have views, that is, about the consumption of alcoholic beverages. We've nothing against people that disapprove. Some of our best friends don't drink. We're not narrow-minded in that way, me and Ethel. Are we, love?”

“Never! Each to his own is what we say.” Mrs. Merryweather stood with her back squarely toward the liquor cabinet. “But perhaps you ladies would rather have tea. It will be just as quick to brew up a pot. Or then there's coffee. How about coffee? Unless you only drink the decaffeinated sort. We pitched it the minute the sell-by date came up.”

Husband and wife now wore matching sheens of perspiration on their faces, which, coupled with the similarity of their Hawaiian outfits, made them look remarkably alike, as is said to happen to couples over a period of years. My gaze was drawn back to the nude portrait. A discreet draping of shadow might have ruined the integrity of the piece, but I wouldn't be sitting with the uncomfortable feeling that I ought to avert my eyes while handing it a dressing gown, along with an apology for entering the room without knocking. My taste runs to landscapes and the sort of family photos you can send out on Christmas cards. It suddenly struck me that the only photos in view were of Mr. and Mrs. Merryweather. Had Ernestine grown up camera shy? While I allowed my mind to wander Mrs. Malloy got down to business.

“Oh, don't go fussing with pots of tea or cups of coffee. Me and Mrs. H. here wouldn't think of putting you to all that trouble.” Treading down on my foot with a spiked heel.

“Absolutely not,” I spluttered through a mouthful of scone.

“What else is on offer?” Mrs. Malloy gave the liquor cabinet her undivided attention.

“Pretty much anything you'd like.”

“You name it, we've likely got it.”

The Merryweathers spoke as one, simultaneously mopping their brows and in their beaming smiles displaying that their faith in humanity was restored.

“Then I'll take a gin,” Mrs. Malloy proffered graciously. “With just the teensiest splash of tonic, if you'll be so kind. Mustn't,” she said, eyeing me smugly, “spoil the integrity of the drink.”

Just great! I fulminated. Had she forgotten that she didn't need to sound like a decorator, except when visiting Moultty Towers? And where were her priorities? Our objective was to find out how or where we could find Ernestine, not to booze it up. I ignored the fact that I was on my second piece of plum bread and kept giving the scones encouraging smiles, hoping one of them would get up the nerve to leap onto my plate. It was hardly wrong to desperately long for an invigorating cup of tea. But a small sherry it would have to be.

“That we don't have.” Mr. Merryweather straightened up after poking around among the bottles. “Very nice sherry, but not much bang for your buck.” He wheezed out another chuckle. “How about a nice spearmint cordial? Ethel and I first had it in Florida.”

“Las Vegas, Frank. Remember that night in the casino?” His spouse reached out to tickle his arm. “Then later in the hotel? Me in my pink nightie out on the balcony and you in that nice new pajama top? And that couple in the next room phoning down to the desk. No fun in some people. No spirit of adventure.” Her plump face seemed to collapse in on itself. “It breaks your heart, but there it is. How about a glass of wine?”

I was afraid to refuse in case she broke down and wept. What was going on here? My mental image of Ernestine was adjusting rapidly from a forty-year-old woman with a sweet baby face to a brassy blonde dancing on tabletops in some seedy joint, where the booze never stopped flowing and susceptible, unprepossessing men could be made to think they were sexy and talked out of—or even married for . . . their money. But what if, I turned the thought this way and that in my mind, it should turn out after the knot was tied that the man was financially dependent on an elderly aunt, and would remain so until the wife took matters into her own hands? Hadn't her ladyship, my heart beat faster, said something about Vincent Krumley accusing Cynthia Edmonds—in what she took to be a befuddled way—of being a go-go dancer? But if it were Cynthia who killed him, then why would she be blackmailing anyone? Unless, she had persuaded Niles to do the dirty work for her and could produce evidence to nail him.

“Don't sit there in a trance,” Mrs. Malloy muttered in my ear. “We're not getting paid by the hour. Do you want a glass of wine, or don't you?”

“That would be lovely.” I scrounged up a smile for the Merryweathers.

“Anything in particular?” Ethel beamed back at me. “We've all flavors and colors.”

“We're into our own wine making,” explained Mr. Merryweather. “Took it up last year after Ethel sprained her back at a senior limbo festival in Hawaii,” he said, patting his shirt front. “It was her chiropractor that suggested we take this up. Very good for the lower back stomping on the grapes or the gooseberries, or whatever else comes to hand. Or I should say”—he planted a loud kiss on his wife—“to foot?”

“Makes for a very nice bouquet, I'm sure.” Mrs. Malloy sipped her gin with ladylike precision.

“Have our own label, Chateau Frankethel. Clever, don't you think?”

“It'll keep me up half the night chuckling,” said Mrs. Malloy.

“Here,” he filled a glass with a murky liquid and handed it to me, “see how you like our April vintage.”

“Thank you.” I took a pretend sip. “And now if we may, my partner and I would like to get round to discussing . . .”

“Oh, yes, please do tell us what you have discovered about our darling girl.” Mrs. Merryweather leaned against her husband's shoulder to be lovingly supported by him to a chaise lounge, where they sat clinging to each other's hands as if aboard a raft that was doomed to sink at any moment.

“Well, it's wonderful news like I said on the phone.” Mrs. Malloy elbowed me back against the cushions. “Mr. Songer and his daughter Mrs. Joritz was very nice about helping us get in touch with you. Took quite a bit of legwork to get to that point, but me and Mrs. H. here are used to that in our line of work. They told us how you tracked them down, something about a baby blanket that Ernestine came with when you adopted her.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Merryweather said, dabbing at her eyes with a crumpled serviette, “the prettiest shade of pink and beautifully knitted. One morning I was going down the High Street with Ernestine in her pram and I just happened to stop alongside a woman pushing her baby, and would you believe she had the exact same blanket? It was an unusual pattern with a very fancy fringe, so I asked her where she'd got it. Didn't I Frank? You remember me telling you?”

“So you did, love.” Mr. Merryweather squeezed her hand and blinked back his own tears. “She told you she'd bought it at a church bazaar in Mucklesby. And I said that seeing that our little girl came from that area there likely was a connection. So we checked around and found out the blanket from the bazaar had been knitted by this young girl, Janet Songer. We got the address and went round to see her parents. What a day that was! Mrs. Songer and her husband filled us in on Ernestine's first months of life in that bed-sitter.

“Enough to break the hardest heart it was . . . thanks, Ethel love, . . .” he said as Ethel handed him a serviette to blow his nose, “that poor young girl dying like that, all alone in the world, and the father never showing his face around the place.”

“And her being sacked for stealing, without any proof from the way I understand it. Why didn't she sell that brooch if she had it? That's the question I'd have liked to ask those high-and-mighty Krumleys.” Mrs. Merryweather withdrew her hand from her husband's to pound a fist on her knee. “They should be downright ashamed of themselves.”

“Lady Krumley wishes to make amends.” I slid my untouched glass of wine onto a side table.

“She's a bit late.” Mr. Merryweather tucked the serviette into the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt. “When I think of the shadow cast over Ernestine's life and the effect it's had on her, I could howl like a baby.”

“You told her what you knew?” I was aghast.

“We didn't want to.” Mrs. Merryweather sounded defensive. “But right from an early age Ernestine asked a lot of questions. And it didn't seem right to lie to her. This is a small place and stories leak out, people gossip. We didn't want her accusing us later of telling her a bunch of fairy stories.”