The Importance of Being Ernestine

Three

“Has to be her, don’t it?” Mrs. Malloy stage whispered in my ear, while the woman in black took stock of the room. “Wouldn’t be some gypsy come selling clothes peg; not at this hour, it wouldn’t. Name’s Lady Krumley. Got aristocracy written all over her long-nosed puss. But don’t you go bobbing no curtsies, trying to get in thick, Mrs. H. We’ve no time for none of that. You and me, we’ve got to come up with a way to handle this here situation.”

I wasn’t at all sure I liked the sound of this. My insides still felt a bit unsure of themselves, and my head began revolving on its own axis several feet above my shoulders. Fortunately her ladyship did not appear to notice anything amiss. At her age-well into her seventies-she could be blessedly hard of hearing and worn out by her journey.

She might have been in the throes of hypnosis as she lowered herself onto a chair, rested her carpet-style handbag on her knees and drew the black velvet cape across the buttoned-up bosom of her decidedly dated frock. Were the odd clothes a misguided attempt at disguise, I wondered? I could almost see the thought drift off into the still lingering haze of tobacco smoke. Holding onto the edge of Milk Jugg’s desk, I wavered a glance at Mrs. Malloy that I hoped would make it clear that Lady Krumley’s arrival was none of my concern.

My place was at home with the husband who might at this moment be planning to divorce me if I did not restore his study to what he considered its old world charm. The fact that I couldn’t at that moment quite remember what he looked like did not stop me from deciding to telephone Kathleen Ambleforth, the vicar’s wife, to ask her to return the items that she had assured me, with such grateful enthusiasm, would do very nicely for St. Anselm’s annual charity drive. Kathleen I could picture all too well. She has a grimly controlled temper behind her brisk smile. Taking a firmer grip of the desk, it seemed to me the better part of cowardice to focus on returning Lady Krumley’s blank stare.

She was, to put it as kindly as possible, a horse-faced woman beset with an oversized Roman nose, a sloping chin and hooded eyes, so dark as to be almost black. But perhaps when my head cleared she would improve. At the moment her hair was undoubtedly her best feature. It was was thick and coarse and either from art or nature mahogany in color, with only a touch of gray at the temples. She wore it wound in a thick coil topped by the 1940s-style hat.

Undoubtedly, Kathleen Ambleforth would have coveted that hat for the charity drive. I focused on it in an attempt to stop the walls revolving and prayed that Mrs. Malloy would do nothing to distract me. No use hoping for miracles. She wasn’t about to fade gracefully into the woodwork. Not while wearing the pink angora sweater that looked as though it had been stolen from Marilyn Monroe, or the miniskirt that might once have been one leg of a pair of boy’s shorts. The wretched woman was all bounce and enthusiasm as she informed her ladyship that it didn’t matter a whit that it was now 9:00 and Mr. Jugg had left for the day.

“Better late than never,” she batted her false eyelashes. At least you’re here on your own two feet. Not in a bag with your arms being used for straps.”

“Most kind!” came the quavering reply.

“And don’t you go worrying your old head that there’s only me and Mrs. Haskell to help sort out the problem that’s got you into a state of fear and trembling, Lady Krumley.” The obnoxiously bracing voice floated somewhere to my left.

“Mrs. Who?” Her ladyship opened her hooded lids a crack and surveyed me down the full length of that unfortunate nose. Her expression could have devoured at least three scullery maids, but her tone was bemused. She was coming back to life, slowly if surely.

“Haskell,” chirped Mrs. Malloy, before I could get my lips unstuck.

“And she is?” The look directed my way registered the suspicion that I was tragically mute.

“Another of me lovely employers.” A technically accurate but completely misleading reply delivered by Mrs. Malloy.

Lady Krumley straightened in her chair, her eyes suddenly snapping with inquiry. “This person,” waving a gloved hand that missed me by inches, “is Mr. Jugg’s business partner? But I had understood from the worthy source who suggested I seek assistance here that Mr. Jugg was a sole practitioner in the private detective business.”

“Mrs. Haskell hasn’t been on the scene long.” Mrs. Malloy stood to my right on her high heels looking the picture of truth and rectitude. This was the moment for me to take a stand. Instead, as the floor began to tilt like the Titanic, I was forced to sit down and press a hand to my mouth.

“Looks a decent person. Nicely enough dressed for a woman of her stamp. Neat sort of hairstyle. Nothing too modern.” Her ladyship was stripping off her gloves as she spoke and stowing them away in the handbag. “And who might you be, if it’s not too complicated to explain?”

“Roxie Malloy, Mr. Jugg’s Girl Friday.”

Her ladyship appraised Mrs. M. in all her blonde-headed glory. “My pleasure. Although I must say that skirt’s far too short and I have always believed pink to be a debutante’s color. Still, I suppose one might justifiably suggest I am out of step with the modern generation.”

Mrs. Malloy, who had abruptly stopped preening, brightened.

“My late husband, Sir Horace, occasionally cautioned me to moderate my opinions.” Her ladyship shifted her carpet bag from her black-clad knees to the floor. “But we will however, come to him in due time. As I was saying I hadn’t anticipated confiding in more than one pair of ears. To be frank, it never crossed my mind that Mr. Jugg would have a secretary or whatever they’re called these days, let alone a partner.” Lady Krumley looked around the office with its bare bones furnishings, uncurtained, night-darkened windows and the motley assortment of plants. Even my blurred vision took in the fact that the plastic ones looked as if they needed watering and the real ones appeared horribly fake. Clearly Lady Krumley, who undoubtedly had her own conservatory back at the ancestral hole, as my cousin Freddy would call it, was under no delusions that she was visiting Kew Gardens.

“The person who gave me the direction to this detective agency advised me that Mr. Jugg was very much a lone wolf,” she continued in an increasingly robust voice. “But we never know all there is to know about anyone, do we, even when the relationship’s of considerable duration?”

Mrs. M., for reasons I was unable to fathom, again looked put out. But she kept her voice affable. “Now don’t you go being afraid, old ducks-meaning your ladyship-to spill the beans about what brings you here,” She eyed the butts in the ashtray, but whether because she suddenly noticed they looked and smelled disgusting or because she was dying for a puff, I couldn’t tell. “Discretion’s the name of the game here at Jugg’s Detective Agency. Always has been, always will be. Milk’s been in the business a long time.”

“Milk?” Her ladyship raised an inquiring eyebrow. “I wasn’t given to understand he was also in the dairy business.”

“It’s his nickname.” I cautiously supplied this tidbit.

“Ah, yes. I do see.”

“Course only them closest to him use it regular like. But call him what you will. Doesn’t mean the man don’t know that one wrong word in the wrong ears could have some very nasty results.” To illustrate her point, Mrs. Malloy drew a finger across her throat. A gesture wasted on her ladyship who directed her hooded gaze at me.

“I suppose it helps, in that regard, his partner being a mute.”

Which of course completely took my voice away. Not so Mrs. Malloy. She tossed her blond locks, fluttered her heavily blackened lashes and giggled like a fifteen-year-old. “Got a sense of humor, haven’t you, ducks? Course Mrs. Haskell can talk. Shell-shocked, that’s what she is at this minute. Just come in from a nasty showdown between a husband and wife over some missing property. Very unpleasant these domestic situations can turn. I’ll not say no more, but I’m sure you can picture it.”

Clearly Lady Krumley could. The bullet holes in the library wainscoting, the bloodstains on the Persian carpet, the family dog covering its face with its paws in the corner, to say nothing of the body that would have to be temporarily put in the sideboard if the bridge game was to begin on time. I made the mistake of looking at the ashtray and another chance to speak up was lost.

“Horrible stuff we see in this business.” Mrs. M. looked positively blissful. “Still, no disrespect to Milk, some jobs in this business are best left to women is what I say. Can’t expect a man to really understand the female viewpoint, now can you?”

“You may be right.” Her ladyship’s eyelids narrowed. “Even my dear Horace was not always sensitive to my way of looking at things. Indeed, part of my reason for being late for my appointment was that I lost track of time wondering if Mr. Jugg would dismiss my fears as flights of feminine fantasy.”

“There you are, then!” Mrs. Malloy was at her most triumphant. “All turned out for the best, didn’t it? How about I fix you a good stiff drink before we get started? And don’t be afraid to go ahead and smoke if you fancy a ciggy. Mrs. Haskell and me aren’t ones to pass judgment. Would be the pot calling the kettle black, wouldn’t it?”

It was all too much for me. Prying myself away from the desk I fled in what I hoped was the direction of the loo, somehow in the process managing to drag Mrs. Malloy along with me. She mumbled something over her shoulder, and I caught a glimpse of Her Ladyship’s startled black gaze before I found myself again hanging over the washbasin. Oh, the blessed chill of the porcelain! For a moment I prayed for the guillotine to come slicing down on my neck, and then all at once-miraculously-I was whole and healthy again. Amazing! The floor didn’t tilt. The room didn’t spin. And even Mrs. Malloy’s aggrieved voice did not make me wish to take a nosedive into the toilet and be flushed away into oblivion.

“Well, I hope you’re proper ashamed of yourself, Mrs. H., giving that poor little old lady the silent treatment.”

“I didn’t feel well.”

“Rubbish! You look proper blooming to me this minute. Never been so shown up in me life, I haven’t! And after me going and promoting you too! Anyone else would have made you the secretary and me Mr. Jugg’s partner. Unselfish to the core, that’s always been me trouble. But there’s no use standing here crying over spilt milk.”

I didn’t ask if there was any pun intended. “Lady Krumley isn’t little,” I said. She has to be five foot eight in her bare feet. And I doubt very much given the title that she’s poor.”

“There you go, picking me words apart like a sink full of lettuce! We’ve got to get back in there before she gets the wind up and disappears into the night.” Mrs. Malloy stood like Justice on a pedestal, but I turned to straighten my hair in the dinky little mirror above the basin, feeling stronger by the minute. There was no way I was going to allow her to intimidate me into posing as a private detective-something I was sure would have nasty legal consequences. One petty criminal in the family was enough, thank you very much.

My cousin Freddy’s mother, Aunt Lulu, had taken up shoplifting years ago when her women friends chose needle-point or bridge as a hobby. To date she had not found herself in the dock facing a judge wearing a wig his wife had crocheted and who was not inclined to be moved by the fact that the accused claimed to give most of her “finds,” as she termed them, to charitable organizations.

“So her ladyship’s a tough-looking old bird living in a house with four hundred rooms-from the address I peeked at in Mr. Jugg’s appointment book.” Mrs. Malloy’s blonde hair sat on her head like an ill-fitting halo. “Moldy Towers, I think that’s the name of the place.”

“Surely not!”

“I’m not here to argue with you, Mrs. H.” Amazingly, Mrs. Malloy’s nose did not grow with this brazen lie. “The point I’m making is that Lady Krumley wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t in some fearful sort of trouble, now would she?”

“People seek out private detectives for all sorts of reasons. She might suspect the butcher of overcharging her, for all we know.”

“More like her very life’s at stake. Otherwise why not send her man of business or someone of that sort?” She spoke with a long drawn-out hiss. “Her sort aren’t used to doing for themselves. Not unless it’s something they want kept hush-hush. Think on that!”

I didn’t answer.

Mrs. Malloy wagged a finger under my nose. “What if she was to walk out of here without us finding out what’s up, and we was to read in the newspapers tomorrow that she’d been found stuffed in an attic trunk or dead from arsenic in the soup or pushed off one of them bloomin’ towers? Course,” Mrs. Malloy added to fend off any protests on my part, “could be there aren’t no towers, for all you’d think that’s how the place got its name.”

“Really?”

“Too right! I once knew a woman as lived in a house called The Firs. And not so much as a Christmas tree front or back. You know the sort, always putting on airs, some people! But then again you did have to feel sorry for Doris, seeing as how she had a nephew that did her out of the money she’d saved up to buy the washing machine she’d been dreaming about for years.”

“I’m sure Lady Krumley has plenty of washing machines. Enough to bequeath to the charity of her choice.” I edged toward the door.

“And I’ll bet you me second best fur coat, Mrs. H., she’s also got a nasty nephew like they always have sneaking around in them Agatha Christie books.”

“Who’s desperate to inherit all the household appliances,” I nodded.

“That’s right!” Mrs. Malloy looked pleased as Punch that I was finally beginning to realize we were in the business of sniffing out evil. “And then of course they’ll be the wicked step-daughter and the nasty chauffeur what’s really a cousin from the wrong side of the blanket and the smiley-faced bank manager that’s been embezzling the money Lady Krumley’s hubby left when he died and…”

“A whole bunch of other good-for-nothings,” I agreed smoothly, “anyone of whom could be itching to bump off her ladyship. I’m sure Mr. Jugg will have the time of his life sorting it all out when he returns. Although from what you’ve been telling me he’s more interested in rooting out evil from the mean streets than the drawing room. Oh, well a change of pace never hurt anyone.”

“I’m sure I don’t know how you can be so callous!” Mrs. M. indicted. “What if you find out too late Lady Krumley was in mortal danger?”

She got me there.

“I should never have made you a partner in Jugg’s Detective Agency.” She folded her arms, thrusting her bosom ceiling-ward. “There’s not many that gets promoted after fifteen minutes of drinking the company booze and smoking cigarettes like they was going up in price the next day. But there’s no point in standing here breaking me heart over that poor woman in there. Thank goodness I bought meself that new winter coat. At least I’ll be able to go to her funeral without fear of showing meself or Mr. Jugg up.”

“Enough!” I was ready to capitulate. “I already feel like a villain out on parole after Ben’s reaction tonight. It probably won’t do any irrevocable harm to go back in there and hear what Lady Krumley has to say.”

“Thanks for them kind words, Mrs. H.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“Well, they do say blondes have more fun, don’t they?” Patting her hair complacently, Mrs. Malloy gave a final preen for luck in the mirror, before sailing ahead of me into the office, where our spirits were immediately dampened by a most unnerving sight: Lady Krumley slumped forward in her chair. At least we thought it was her ladyship. It was at first difficult to be one hundred percent certain, given that her hat was tipped down over her nose, which Milk Jugg, had he been here, might have documented in his notes as her most distinguishing feature.