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Authors: Charlotte MacLeod

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BOOK: The Plain Old Man
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“Aunt Emma, do you really think it was Sebastian Frostedd who kidnapped Ernestine?”

“Sebastian? Oh, Sarah, don’t take me seriously. I was only thinking what an interesting headline he’d make. More coffee?”

“Please. You did mean Sebastian, though, didn’t you?”

Emma sighed. “Darling, I simply don’t know. I will admit Bed used to say it wasn’t safe to open your mouth around Sebastian Frostedd because he’d pick the fillings right out of your teeth if he got a chance. I’m surprised Dolph hasn’t given you an earful.”

“Oh, he has. Dolph claims Sebastian swiped his own mother’s ukulele when he was ten, and pawned it so he’d have money to spend on liquor and women when he got old enough, but you know Dolph. He says Sebastian’s never earned an honest dollar in his life. Neither has Dolph, but then Dolph’s never earned a crooked one, either. Those Senior Citizens’ Recycling Centers he and Mary have started pay surprisingly well, but it’s the recyclers who earn the money, and it all goes straight back to them.”

“Imagine Dolph Kelling a junkman.” Despite her own perturbation, Emma managed to laugh. “I’m so glad he’s found his niche at last. I don’t know about the ukulele, but after some of the tales Bed used to tell, I’d believe just about anything. All of which doesn’t alter the fact that Sebastian makes a superb Dr. Daly and there’s no way we can get along without him.”

“Aunt Emma, does
The Sorcerer
actually mean more to you than the Romney?”

“At the moment, yes, to be quite frank with you. I’ve never thought of Ernestina as mine. She’s just one more of the heirlooms Bed and I somehow wound up holding in trust for the Kelling family. Naturally I’d hate to feel I’d fallen down on the job Bed left me to do, but personally I’m going to feel a thousand percent worse if this show flops. I m sorry if I’ve shocked you, but that’s the way it is. You know, Sarah, I’m really too old to be doing this again. I’ve no voice left and precious little wind. I’ve made up my mind that Lady Sangazure’s the last role I’ll ever do, but I’m still vain enough to want to go out in a blaze of glory.”

Emma took a sip of her coffee. “Do try to see my point of view, Sarah. The show will be over three days from now. That’s not long to wait. Anyway, if Ernestina’s actually being held for ransom, we have a little time, I should think. It’s going to take whoever stole her a while to cut out all those letters from the newspaper and stick the ransom note together, shouldn’t you think? Isn’t that the accepted procedure?”

“Nowadays I believe they simply telephone.”

“Then in that case we have absolutely nothing to worry about. They won’t be able to get a call through because the line will be busy right up till curtain time. It always is. What I’m getting at, darling, is that nothing dreadful’s going to happen to Ernestina until I’ve been given a chance to pay the ransom and I can’t realistically be expected to do that in the wink of an eyelash, can I? So we simply stall the thieves along until I’ve sung my swan song, then we call the police and get everything straightened out. You see?”

Sarah didn’t see at all, but she never got a chance to say so. The gilt and ivory French phone on her aunt’s
poudrière
was already ringing. Somebody was being terribly sorry to bother Emma so early but she simply had to know what was happening about the baskets for the auditorium because somebody else had this minute called to say she’d fallen and wrenched her shoulder so she couldn’t possibly.

“What a dreadful shame. No, it’s quite all right. My niece is going to take care of them. Yes, the scenery’s all finished and delivered. Not a thing in the world to fret yourself about. Thank you for calling.”

Emma put the receiver back on its cradle. “That woman hasn’t the common sense of a good-sized rabbit. But she’ll work her head off for you so long as you don’t expect her to think with it. You will get at those baskets right after breakfast, won’t you? I hate to slave-drive, but I want this performance to be perfect in every way. You do understand, don’t you? Now come along. Mrs. Heatherstone must be wondering what’s kept us.”

Breakfast at Emma Kelling’s was porridge, eggs, bacon, muffins, toast, and marmalade. Sarah ate it all, in a sort of sinking-of-the-Titanic mood. Anyway, lunch would probably be salad and yogurt. Her aunt was wont to take spasms of dieting in the middle of the day, provided she didn’t have a luncheon engagement, as she so often did. In the midst of buttering a piece of muffin, Sarah had a thought.

“Aunt Emma, didn’t you say you were having the whole cast over here tonight, chorus, orchestra, and all, for supper and a pre-dress rehearsal?”

“That’s right. We’d hoped to have it in the auditorium, but they’re booked for a dance recital or some ridiculous thing.”

“Then what about the Romney? People will notice that great, gaping hole inside the frame and ask questions.”

“Oh dear, so they will. I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll have to pretend I’ve sent it away to be cleaned.”

“But you’ve already told Ridpath Wale you didn’t want to bother until after the show.”

“Then I’ll tell him I changed my mind.”

“He won’t believe you. When did you ever? Anyway, how could you have made the arrangements on such short notice? Last night you said you didn’t even know whom to call.”

Sarah added a dollop of marmalade to her muffin and finished it off. “I’ll tell you what,” she said when she could talk again, “I could slap off a comic portrait of you as Lady Sangazure on a piece of the leftover scenery canvas and stick that into the frame. The cast will think it’s just part of the fun.”

“Darling, that would be magnificent! But can you?”

“I don’t know, but I can try. It doesn’t have to be good, you know.”

“I didn’t mean that kind of ‘can you,’ I meant will you have time? There are all those baskets “to be done.”

“What about your garden club? Couldn’t you get some of them to cut your greens?”

“Good heavens, it’s high time I was put out to pasture. The garden club never crossed my mind. I’ll just make a couple of phone calls.”

Emma Kelling was off and running again. Sarah picked up some of the breakfast dishes and carried them out to the kitchen.

“Why, Sarah, you didn’t have to do that,” Mrs. Heatherstone fussed. “Here, set them on the drain-board. I’ll get the rest.”

“This was just an excuse to talk to you.” Sarah got rid of her load. “Mrs. Heatherstone, I’m sure your husband must have told you what we think happened last night.”

“About us all drinking the poisoned Slepe-o-tite? I can’t believe it.”

“It can’t have been poisoned, just loaded with sleeping pills or something of that sort. Didn’t it taste strange to you when you drank it?”

“No worse than usual. I hate Slepe-o-tite, if you want the truth.”

“Then why do you drink it?”

The cook shrugged. “Because it’s good for me, I suppose. Mrs. Kelling says so, anyway. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t have tasted the Slepe-o-tite much last night anyway. Mr. Frostedd brought me a lovely box of those chocolate-covered liqueur cherries I’m so fond of, and I’d been eating a few of them while I was reading the paper before I went to bed. Not that I need ’em, the Lord knows,” she sighed, smoothing her apron over her ample frontage. “But anyway, I remember taking one more just before I drank the Slepe-o-tite, figuring the maraschino would take the taste out of my mouth. I guess likely it did, all right.”

“That’s interesting. Would your husband have eaten some, too, do you suppose?”

“Oh yes, I expect so. Mr. Heatherstone’s not one for snacking between meals as a rule, but he does enjoy a little bite of something sweet before bedtime.”

“I see,” said Sarah, who had a fairly good idea that she did. “When did Mr. Frostedd give you the cherries?”

Yesterday afternoon, right after he got here, I suppose it must have been. He came out to the kitchen and told me how much he appreciated all the nice teas and dinners he’d been getting here since we started working on the show. He knew how much extra work it must be making for me, and he just wanted to do a little something to show his appreciation.”

“How thoughtful of him. Is Mr. Frostedd in the habit of bringing you presents?”

“Well, no, I can’t say as he is. He’ll come out here and pass the time of day once in a while when the spirit moves him, but he doesn’t usually bring me anything. He’s more apt to help himself to some of whatever happens to be on the table, if you want the truth. Not that I mind, and not that Mrs. Kelling would ever begrudge a bite to a living soul. You know how open-handed she is.”

“Oh no, she wouldn’t mind,” Sarah assured her. “Now, Mrs. Heatherstone, I don’t want to put ideas into your head that aren’t there already, but I wonder if you could just tell me where those two thermos jugs were when Mr. Frostedd came into the kitchen.”

“Sarah Kelling, you’re not trying to tell me a nice man like him would do a thing like that?”

Sarah knew that scolding tone of old. For a fleeting moment she wondered if she was about to be sent to her room. “I’m not trying to tell you anything, Mrs. Heatherstone,” she pleaded. “I just want to know. Mr. Frostedd has a habit of teasing my aunt about her Slepe-o-tite, she says. I was thinking he might have made some joke to you about it.”

“Oh, now I get what you’re driving at, though I must say I don’t see what’s so funny about Slepe-o-tite. Let’s see, now. No, I hadn’t put the jugs out yet. They must still have been in the butler’s pantry.”

“Whereabouts in the butler’s pantry?”

“Sitting on the counter above that long cabinet where we store the larger serving pieces. Normally I’d set them down inside, but my back’s been bothering me so lately that anything I know I’m likely to want again right away, I just leave on top. Saves me having to stoop so much.”

Sarah made the appropriate noises about Mrs. Heatherstone’s back. She was picturing the butler’s pantry, not really a separate room in this house but a rather narrow passage lined on both sides with glass-fronted china cabinets and lockable silver drawers, separated from both the kitchen and the dining room by swinging doors. She’d just come through there herself. Sebastian would have done the same to reach the kitchen, unless he’d gone around and come through from the back of the house, which would have been absurd. So he’d have had plenty of time alone with the jugs both coming and going.

“Thermos jugs tend to scare me a little,” she remarked. “I always think I have to scald them out with hot water before I put in anything hot, for fear of cracking the glass liner.”

“You always were an old-fashioned child, Sarah. That might have been true years back, before they got this tempered glass, or whatever they call it, but I don’t think it makes any difference these days. Though I must say I do it myself, often as not.”

“Did you rinse out the jugs last night?”

Mrs. Heatherstone had to stop and think. Then she shook her head. “I can’t for the life of me remember. I might have and I mightn’t, that’s the best I can tell you. The jugs were washed clean yesterday morning, I do know that. I’m not one to leave dirty dishes sitting around.”

“I know you’re not.” This wasn’t helping a bit. “Would you happen to recall whether any other member of the cast came into the kitchen last night?”

“Nope. I can swear to that easily enough. Mind you, I’m not saying one of them couldn’t have snuck into the pantry and dropped something into those jugs, if that’s what you’re driving at. They’d have had to be pretty nippy about it, though. Mr. Heatherstone was back and forth a lot, serving the tea and setting the table and getting ice for the drinks and whatnot. He never got a chance to sit down to his own dinner till after he’d taken the coffee into the drawing room. Not that he minds, as I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. He always has an early tea and a little rest, knowing Mrs. Kelling as we do, so we’re ready for anything by the time she tells us she’s got company coming unexpected.”

“So in fact it would have been—what? About half-past eight before the coast was clear for somebody to get into the pantry undisturbed?”

“Closer to nine, I should say. But by then I’d have had the jugs in the kitchen with me. I remember putting the milk on to heat in the double boiler and going in to get the jugs, and hearing you all talking around the dinner table. Mrs. Kelling was saying she’d have the buffet set out in the sun parlor by the time people began arriving for the rehearsal. That was news to me. I’d assumed she’d want Mr. Heatherstone to serve drinks and hors d’œuvres in the drawing room first as usual, which would have given me extra time to be setting the food out in the dining room. They often want the sun parlor clear for rehearsing the dance numbers, you see, because the tiled floor out there’s easier to skip around on than the drawing-room carpets.”

“Yes, I see.”

“I wouldn’t want you to think I make a practice of eavesdropping, Sarah, but this was my business as much as anybody’s, so I stayed there till I’d made sure what the plans were. Then I had to run back and grab the milk off the stove before it came up to the boil, and let the Slepe-o-tite cool down a little before I poured it into the jugs. Mrs. Kelling hates to scald her tongue.”

So much for Aunt Emma’s scorched-milk theory.

“After you’d finished and Mr. Heatherstone had taken the coffee into the drawing room, he and I sat down here at the kitchen table and had a bite of dinner ourselves, as I told you. Then we took care of the dishes together, and I took our jug of Slepe-o-tite and the box of cherries I mentioned and went along to our place.”

Then there had been a short interval, though perhaps only a couple of minutes, when somebody could have ducked into the kitchen and dropped a sedative into the pan of milk that was heating on the stove. Who, for instance? Everybody but Charlie Daventer and Ridpath Wale had left. Sarah knew perfectly well neither of them had got up till Emma gave the signal, and that they’d all four gone back to the drawing room together. Soon after that, however, she herself had gone off to Cousin Frederick’s.

And what if she had? By that time the Heatherstones must have been eating their own belated dinner with the filled jugs sitting right under their noses. Then Mrs. Heatherstone had taken one of them and gone home. It made no sense whatever, as far as she could see, to imagine the jugs could have been tampered with after that. The doping must have been done while they were sitting in the butler’s pantry.

BOOK: The Plain Old Man
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