“Her ladyship mentioned the incident.” I laid down the knife and fork I had just picked up. “It made her late for her appointment. She had to stop at a garage to get her car window temporarily fixed.”
“Mrs. Thatcher said that if her husband had realized Lady Krumley was driving the car he would have checked first to make sure that she was alright before leaving the scene. I imagine,” Laureen shrugged, “that he was in such a temper that he wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Your bringing this up explains something Mrs. Beetle, the cook, had to say when we was talking to her earlier.” Mrs. Malloy had polished off her sausages and chips and most of her baked beans.
“That’s right,” I said, “she mentioned that Constable Thatcher hadn’t been informed of Vincent Krumley’s death when he showed up at Moultty Towers.”
“On the night in question”-Mrs. Malloy reached out a fork to spear one of my sausages-“he got a phone call about it just after he arrived. So something else brought him to the house. Must have been to own up to his son’s naughty behavior and find out how her ladyship was doing. Who’d be a parent? Quite makes up me mind for me, I’m not having no more kids.”
Laureen smiled, but I didn’t dare.
“Did the boy say why he and his friend threw those flower pots at the car?” I asked Laureen.
“No.”
“And his father, a policeman, can’t get it out of him?”
“That’s what’s got Mrs. Thatcher so worried. Usually Frank’s only got to look at the boy to get at the truth. She thinks Ronald’s frightened… badly frightened. She said it could be of the other boy. He’s almost a year older and much bigger than Ronald, and Mrs. Thatcher-as most mothers would-thinks he’s the ringleader. But she is also wondering if it has something to do with Vincent Krumley’s death.”
“Now, what makes her think that?” Mrs. M. poured more tea.
“It’s not just the nightmares. Ronald’s been talking in his sleep. Muttering stuff about the old man and the dog.”
“What does his father say?” I asked.
“That he should be having nightmares after what he did.”
“And the other boy isn’t talking?”
“Not a word. His parents are saying it was all Ronald’s fault, along with Frank’s for being too strict.” Laureen spooned sugar into her cup. “I’m afraid those two boys came over to see Mrs. Hasty and the cat, or to play in the copse, and saw something they are now afraid to talk about.”
“Did you say that to Mrs. Thatcher?” I had finished as much as I could of my meal.
“No, she was already upset. And I could be wrong. Maybe the two incidents, Ronald’s hooliganism and Mr. Krumley’s death, which is of course the talk of the village, get mixed up in his head while he’s sleeping. Perhaps he’s heard it said that Vincent was a heavy drinker and not much good for anything, and he’s scared in case it really is true that people who do bad things come to a bad end.” Laureen pulled a wry face and said that if such were indeed the case she was in deep trouble.
“You’ve lost me, ducky.” Mrs. Malloy eyed her sternly.
“Sorry. I’m bracing up to getting the topic back to the reason I asked you both to meet me here.” The smile was still in place and included me. “I want to confess.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” Mrs. Malloy opened her handbag with the exaggeratedly casual air of one about to whip out a gun. It was a little disappointing when she produced a tissue instead and dabbed her lips. “And would there be an accomplice involved in this confession? The same person you mentioned as having, along with yourself, made the mistake of thinking Lady Krumley had gone to see a man detective? The world’s full of surprises, isn’t it? But I 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.