“So I put me foot in it.” Mrs. Malloy wheezed while bending over and clutching at a wooden arm. “But how was I to know what with all that tarnish he’d left.”
“Her ladyship did say he wasn’t up to the standard of her former butler.”
“It slipped me mind.”
“It might not have done, if you hadn’t been so busy dimpling at the man.” I staggered upward, shifting the bag from one arm to the other, “But I have to give you points for finding out where Vincent slept. It’s a stretch, but you might find something in his suitcase or a drawer that could provide us with a hint as to why someone decided he needed to be got out of the way.” We had reached the top and were leaning against the banister railing. All was dark brown varnish, dimness and shadow, the only window being the stained glass one behind us at the final bend in the stairs.
“So you want me to check out Vincent’s final resting place so to speak, while you do Lady Krumley’s bedroom?” Mrs. Malloy sounded as if she wasn’t sure whether or not to take umbrage.
“You’re far more experienced, having had more than one husband, at going through men’s pockets and knowing where they hide things when they want to be sneaky, than I am.”
“Every little piece of expertise helps in this line of work.” She was clearly appeased. “Well, off we go! Me left and you right. And let’s make it snappy. We’ve a lot of ground to cover while we’re here. Have to hope there’s lightbulbs in the bedrooms, not just candles-seems her ladyship likes to keep to the old ways.”
“It’s daylight.”
“You could have fooled me, Mrs. H.!”
“There’ll be windows.”
“Ha!”
There were indeed several windows in Lady Krumley’s bedroom. Unfortunately, they were so heavily draped with curtains of undeterminable color that only narrow strips of glass were exposed. A few faint slivers of light managed to creep around the enormous four-poster bed that was itself swathed, from ceiling to floor, in some tapestry material. I felt very much like Pip groping his way toward Miss Haversham. It would not have surprised me if a family of mice had run over my feet or my searching hands had become entangled in a tattered veil of cobwebs. Fortunately one of them located the light switch instead, and the room became fairly decently illuminated. Nothing, short of hauling out all the furniture, could have made it cheerful. But it was neither cobwebby nor dusty. I forgot that I wasn’t really here to redecorate and, after setting down my bag on a table under a portrait of a woman who looked as though she had died before it was painted, wandered about the room, sizing it up. It was large and well-proportioned. And if the hideous marble was removed from the fireplace and replaced with a mellow brick or tile it would make a world of difference. I was picturing a peachy faux finish on the walls and copper wall lights on either side of the bed, which perhaps could be made to do to the point of becoming a magnificent focal point if stripped of its dreary tester and hangings. My mood was turning quite dreamy-a soft-colored whirl of Irish linens, plaids and toiles. No chintz. It would be quite out of character for Lady Krumley. I came back to the real task at hand when I stood in front of her dressing table, where she claimed to have left the emerald brooch before it disappeared. It was now crowded with framed photographs, many of Niles, and an assortment of boxes and bud vases that, knowing her ladyship, I guessed she had been given and felt obliged to keep and display. The mirror that needed resilvering cast a distorted reflection back at me. My eyes looked haunted, my nose off center. Behind me the furniture-a wardrobe and several tallboys-seemed to be crowding in on me, growing taller and wider until they became one giant barrier to the world outside this room. My heart started to hammer. I leaned forward to rest my hands on the dressing table. I thought I heard something. A shifting of position… a scratching… a rustling. Then mental clarity returned. I wondered why the bed had been positioned where it was instead of on the long wall facing the fireplace and closer to the door. A moment later my head was literally in a whirl-a terrifying, screeching, wing-beating darkness grew around me. I don’t like birds, not indoors. Not even so much as a trapped sparrow. And now they surrounded me. Bolts of feathered fury, diving at my head, slamming into windows, walls and furniture. Everything they hit made its own sound. Even though I covered my ears while cowering on the floor, there was no muffling that piercing cacophony. I thought if I could reach the bed, I might be able to get under it. But they seemed to sense what I was about. They pecked at my shoes as I crawled. They were on my back, in my hair. At this point of utmost terror I felt a hand close around my neck. I couldn’t scream. My voice had been beaten deep inside me, but I struggled upright on my knees and lashed out with my arms. I felt rather than heard whoever it was retreat. And a calm descended on me. I recognized the birds for what they were: not some gothic horror, but a weapon unleashed upon me by the human villain of Moultty Towers. As I struggled to my feet the birds thinned out. Their mind-tearing sound began to fade, and only the occasional flutter disturbed the air. The rectangle of solidified darkness that had to be the wardrobe momentarily displayed a crack of light, and I rushed toward it, pawing for the door. I had it open, and someone sprang, pushing me back so that I was again down on my knees, but only for a second. I was back up and blundering in what I hoped was the direction of the door. If I reached it I could find the light switch. I needed the clarity of electric light. I was there. My hand made contact at the instant my legs were grabbed. But before pitching forward I swung around and grabbed at a hank of hair.
“Got you!” I hung on for dear life.
“Ouch!” It was a familiar voice, and I dropped my hand like a rock.
A flutter of wings punctuated the ensuing silence. And then one of us-I wasn’t sure which-turned on the light. Mrs. Malloy and I faced each other. Her hat was gone and her eyelashes were both askew. Otherwise she appeared not too much the worse for wear.
“You’ve got feathers in your hair.” She eyed me as if this were some ghastly breach of etiquette. “But at least you’re you. Although I’m not so sure I should be pleased. We’d be a lot closer to that five thousand pounds if I’d been about to capture Vincent Krumley’s murderer like I thought.”
“You hid in the wardrobe.” I was looking around the room. There were plenty of feathers and white splotches on the furniture, but not a blackbird in sight.
“I was plotting me next move.”
“Very sensible.” I dropped down on a chair, suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion.
“Just what happened here, Mrs. H.?”
“Birds.”
“I know that.” She stood over me, looking severe. “They were bloody well everywhere when I opened the door. They converged when I reached for the light switch, like they knew what I was up to and weren’t going to let me. I got down on me knees and was floundering around when I bumped into you. If you’d screamed like someone sensible I’d have known it was you, and we wouldn’t have ended up chasing each other around like two cats.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Proper shook up aren’t you, and no wonder. I only wish I had some brandy to give you. But there, there, Mrs. H., Roxie’s here for you.” She did the unthinkable for her-bent down and kissed me on the cheek. “Think they came in through the windows? It’s how they got out. I saw the last one go.”
“I didn’t realize with all that curtaining that any of them were open.” I got to my feet. “But no, I don’t think that’s how they came in. Why would they? We’re not talking about a swarm of killer bees. Someone set them loose. A whole cage full of them I would imagine. Someone who wanted us to believe that Flossie’s deathbed cruse was again at work.”