The Importance of Being Ernestine by Dorothy Cannell

were at work beyond the great divide. She failed with me, but don’t let that stop you from being a true believer.”
    â€œWhat I believe is we ought to get busy finding Ernestine before Lady Krumley gives herself a ruddy nervous breakdown,” retorted Mrs. Malloy at her most virtuous. “It’s our Christian duty, besides being a chance for me to get a leg up in me new career. And I’ll tell you another thing, Mrs. H., if I did know how to get hold of Milk, I’m not so sure I’d do it. He’s entitled to some time off, holed up with his booze and his memories of the woman he had to send up the river. Wouldn’t it be something if he was to come back all bleary eyed and unshaven— my dream man come true—and I was able to put the spark back in him, just by saying, ‘No need to upset you hangover about the Krumley case. It’s all sorted out. A treat.’ ?”
    I was silent. There is no reasoning with an infatuated sixty-year-old.
    â€œWell, I never thought you’d let me down, Mrs. H.” She brushed away an imaginary tear from her false eyelashes. “Not for all your funny little ways, I didn’t. But if it means going it alone so be it! Tomorrow I’ll head out for Moultty Towers on the bus. Going by car would have been more convenient, but it’s not like I don’t know where Biddlington-By-Water is. A proper dead-in-a-live-hole if ever there was one. Went there a few years back, I did, to play bingo at the Old Age Pensioners’ Hall. Wasn’t anyone in the room with their own teeth and most of them too deaf to hear the caller. Talk about a wasted evening. I remember this one geezer in particular that kept saying gambling was sin and he shouldn’t be there and that if his wife, or it could have been his daughter, knew of it it’d break her heart. Never happy unless they’re miserable some people, but that’s neither here nor there to you, is it Mrs. H.?”
    â€œWhat exactly do you hope to accomplish by going to Moultty Towers other than another chat with her ladyship?” I was putting on my coat and Mrs. Malloy proceeded to button hers.
    â€œTalk to people, if there’s any still around, that knew Flossie Jones. Like the kitchen maid. Could be someone will remember something being said . . . about her family, for instance . . . that will help me get started.”
    It wasn’t a bad idea and for a weak moment I was tempted to go with her. Tracking down names and addresses, following up the most tenuous of leads would surely be preferable to facing up to Kathleen Ambleforth’s voluble disappointment when I asked for the return of the vanload of items from Ben’s study. Also, and far worse, was the possibility that Ben would remain angry with me. I had never seen him as he had been tonight, so cold and tight-lipped. His bouts of irritation with me tended to be vehement, with him stomping around, clutching his head and shouting an occasional lion’s roar, a brief upset that rustled the curtains and shifted a couple of pictures out of alignment before he threw up his hands and suggested a cup of tea. This was different, and I both longed to be home and dreaded Ben’s response when I came through the door.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Mrs. Malloy’s voice bounced me back to the moment at hand.
    â€œI didn’t say anything.”
    â€œI know that! I’m not deaf!” It did not bode well that the second person in one evening to feel I had betrayed them was not ready to forgive and forget at a moment’s notice. “I thought I heard something.” She stood pulling on her gloves. “A creaking sound.”
    â€œI heard one earlier,” I said. “Old buildings tend to make their own funny little noises. Or it could be a stray cat that’s found it’s way in from the alleyway. There was one hanging about when I came in.” The words were no sooner out of my