“Yes, just as we discussed.”
“Never a dull moment in this business.” Her face sobered. “It’ll be a bit of a letdown when it’s over.”
“Let’s hope we’re around to enjoy it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We can’t be absolutely sure that things won’t get out of hand. Constable Thatcher could doze off clutching the doorknob. And our murderer may not take kindly to be brought out into the open. Naturally I didn’t plant that little seed in Ben’s mind. I assured him that you and I were safe as houses.”
“How many policemen did you tell him there was going to be on hand?”
“A few.”
Mrs. M. was flapping powder onto her nose with a large puff. “I’m shocked, that’s what I am! Telling lies to your very own husband.”
“Only a white… well, maybe a gray one. For all I know Constable Thatcher could be a very large man, the size of at least three regular-sized ones.”
“He’s nothing of the sort, he’s built just nice. Quite a pleasant jolly sort of chap for all we’ve heard of him being so strict with young Ronald. He asked me if I’d ever thought of going into the police force. There was quite a meaningful look in his eyes when he said it.”
“He wasn’t suggesting that with you being such a whiz at solving murders you should be well up the chain of command by now?” Mrs. Malloy did not dignify this with a response. I followed her into the hall where we got into our coats, picked up our handbags and went out the door into the mildest evening we’d had in weeks.
The drive to Biddlington-By-Water seemed shorter because it was now so familiar. We didn’t talk for several miles or rather I should say neither of us said a word out loud. I was reciting my lines for the upcoming production inside my head. And Mrs. Malloy, from the way she was moving her lips and her frequent frowns, appeared to be doing the same thing. But after a while I reverted to thinking about the problems ahead. It was all very well for Mrs. Malloy and me to be conducting dress rehearsals whenever we could spare time during the day. It was hardly surprising that each of the players did and said exactly as wished when we were playing all the parts. The reality was unlikely to go as smoothly. And in the end would it all be for naught? Mrs. Malloy’s thoughts were flowing right along with mine.
“Here’s me fretting that it won’t be a legal confession, no matter how many people hear the bugger say it. Not with all this silly business of the courts insisting that criminals be read their rights first or it all goes out the ruddy window. But what if we don’t get nowhere at all? What if there’s no voice piping in with, ‘It was me! I know it’s not right to go around scaring old ladies out of their wits and murdering people, but a little dickie bird told me to do it’?”
“We’ll still have accomplished something, Mrs. Malloy. The scheme will have been exposed. That should put a damper on things and provide the Krumley family with some security. An admittance would be nice because then we’d know with certainty that we were right and so would the others. But we’re just going to have to take what we can get.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“We’re together in this.” I turned and smiled at her, and she snuffled into a hanky.
“I guess I’ve just got a touch of stage fright. Me knees is knocking. It was the same way when I was in that play at the church hall.”
“On that occasion you made the mistake of trying to bolster up your courage with a stiff bottle of gin. This time you stuck to tea.”
We had now reached Biddlington-By-Water, which looked charmingly Dickensian in the glow of its streetlights and utterly incapable of harboring a jaywalker let alone a murderer in its midst. But soon Moultty Towers, looming before us and in the dark stillness of an almost moonless night, gave off the aura of a place where one might likely spot a discreetly placed sign indicating that “Doctor Crippen Slept Here.” After parking under a skeletal tree, I gripped Mrs. Malloy’s arm, half hoping in cowardly fashion that one of us would slip, spraining an ankle that would demand immediate medical attention. But there was to be no escaping the business at hand.
We were admitted to the house by Watkins, who removed our coats before leading us in his stately way into the drawing room, where we found Lady Krumley enthroned on a high-backed chair in the midst of her family members. The mantelpiece clock gave eight tinkling chimes as Sir Ambrose Krumley and Niles Edmonds rose to acknowledge our entry. There was some murmuring and an inclining of heads, but it was rather like birds fluttering and twittering overhead, something that required a minimal input and response. Cynthia sat, looking glamorous, ill-tempered and with no visible signs of her riding accident, several chairs away from her husband who appeared transfixed. His spectacles somehow seemed more real than the rest of him. Sir Alfonse wore a pale blue suit this evening and a pink and lavender bow tie. They dramatized the appeal-if one were inclined to be enamored to that type of man, which he clearly was-of his portly figure, glossy black curls and swirling moustache. Daisy Meeks, dumpy and dowdy, was the only one whose voice carried above the rest.
“The egg custard we had for a sweet was very tasty. Mrs. Beetle called it a crème caramel. I always put a little lemon rind in mine.” No one paid her any attention, perhaps because at that moment Mr. Featherstone walked into the room.
“Are we finally all here?” Cynthia Edmonds stirred irritably in her chair. “This whole business strikes me as a joke. First these two women,” she said and jabbed a manicured finger in Mrs. Malloy’s and my direction, “are interior designers and now we’re told they’re private detectives, and we’re expected to listen in raptures to them telling us that someone in this room is a murderer.”
“Not necessarily!” I said. “The gathering is not yet complete.”
“Some people don’t care for egg custard,” said Daisy Meeks more for her own edification than anyone else’s.
“Where’s the little dog?” demanded her ladyship. “Animals are very sensitive to the dark forces.” My heart sank. It would seem Mr. Featherstone had not been successful in bringing her round to the concept of a living-breathing villain. But I felt better when her hooded eyes searched out Mrs. Malloy’s face and mine. “I’m talking about the evil that inhabits the hearts and minds of those blighted souls who will do whatever they must to achieve their own ends.”
I thought Mrs. Malloy was about to clap, but she restrained herself. The door had again opened and this time it was Laureen Phillips, followed by Mrs. Beetle and Watkins who carried a silver tray loaded with glasses. The gathering was indeed now complete. Far from looking relieved, Cynthia Edmonds glowered in disgust.
“Why are the servants to be present?”
“Mrs. Malloy and Mrs. Haskell made the request and I approved it,” Lady Krumley addressed the room at large. “Once Watkins has provided everyone, including himself and the two other members of the staff, a glass of wine, I would appreciate having the proceedings begin. Damn!” Her voice had deepened into a growl. “What I wouldn’t give for a cigarette even if it killed me.”
Twenty-two
Somewhere beyond the drawing room a floorboard creaked. Here was a moment ripe with disaster should anyone other than Mr. Featherstone open the door to find Constable Thatcher with his ear to the keyhole.