I f you’ll forgive my saying so,” Celia Belfrey continued with obvious indifference to whether I did or not, “but you’re a pale copy of her. My father’s second wife, previously Eleanor Lambert-Onger, was undoubtedly a beauty.”
“Yes, she was.” I rounded the piecrust coffee table for a closer look and admitted to myself the truth of what she had said. I could see the resemblance to myself in the upswept light brown hair… the shape of the eyes and the mouth; but even had I been painted wearing that softly drifting dream of a dress evocative of the turn of the twentieth century when creamy lace and organza made women look as though they belonged always in rose gardens, I didn’t have that look… nor could I ever achieve it… of infinite femininity coupled with an elusive loveliness. “Lord Belfrey did mention the portrait,” I said.
“And did he tell you I marched into Mucklesfeld and snatched it away from under his furious nose?” Enjoyment seethed through that husky voice. I was a stranger intruding into her home, making me the ideal object onto which to spew her venom. It would be like talking aloud to herself, only better. The thought curled up in my mind that Celia Belfrey’s reclusiveness might not be entirely self-imposed. Had she over time lost the goodwill of the locals? Had old friendships dwindled away to the obligatory Christmas card; leaving only kindly Tommy Rowley willing to spend time with her? When I didn’t answer, the black eyes flashed slyly. “Of course he told you. Being a fool, Aubrey would be incredibly taken with the resemblance, such as it is, and would grasp at any opportunity to talk to you about her. The fact that Eleanor made off with not only the family jewels but Father’s dog, too, wouldn’t cut any ice with him. The only time he came to Mucklesfeld during the less than a year of the marriage, it was laughably apparent that after getting one look at her going up the stairs he was lost. It was also clear that he saw something sinister in her not coming down to join us for tea or dinner-but I was glad not to have to see Father watching her as though he wouldn’t be able to get enough if he kept her in bed all day. He’d bought her by agreeing to pay off her father’s gambling debts, but having her wasn’t enough for him-he wanted her love, would have done anything including groveling on the ground to get it.”
Celia Belfrey’s bile would have been ugly anywhere, but in that lovely room with the onset silvery rain on the windows and Thumper looking gently perplexed it was a violation. When I still remained silent, she turned her head sharply toward Nora Burton still standing in the doorway-looking taller within that framing than I had thought in the hall. It was the bulky cardigan and shapeless skirt that shortened her up close.
“Why are you hovering like that?”
“I wondered, Miss Belfrey,” Nora Burton replied evenly, “if you might wish me to bring in a pot of tea. You usually ask for one around this time.”
“And you thought our visitor might like one?” The black eyes shifted back to me, intent on discomfiting, although I suspected she wanted me to stay.
“No, thank you. If you can tell me whether you know this dog, I’ll be on my way.”
Celia Belfrey flicked dismissing fingers in the direction of the doorway. When the door closed, the eyes went to Thumper. “I’m not sure. I don’t like dogs; that Scottie of Father’s once nipped me quite badly. His cousin Tommy Rowley had to come round and give me some stitches, but my reasonable demand that the creature be put down was ignored, although Father sometimes said he could throttle the wretch when it wouldn’t come when called or chewed on his shoes.”
“Then I’ll…”
“Not so fast,” raising an imperious hand. “I’ve said I’m not sure if I’ve seen this dog before. Sit down,” it was an order, “while I think. I abhor being rushed.”
Reluctantly, I seated myself on the sofa facing the one she occupied. “Forester, the old man who works for me, mentioned that the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Spendlow-word has it that she’s an atheist-recently got a dog from Animal Rescue. That’s them, isn’t it, out to save the planet and every life-form on it? One would have thought a man of the cloth could have found a member of some other fringe group to marry. But I do believe that dog was a poodle mix.”
“Then not Thumper here.” I started to rise, to be waved back into place.
“I also remember hearing that Mr. Manning from Grange Cottage had a dog, and in his case I believe it was a black Lab.” She had me hooked and knew it. “He died a couple of months ago. Crossed the road in front of a car and got hit.”
“Oh, the poor dear!” I fought down the urge to cover Thumper’s ears. Grimkirk being a small place, the deceased might have been a relative of his.
“Hardly cut down in his prime.”
“Even so…”
“Well into his eighties.”
“Oh!”
Celia Belfrey read my look and grimaced a smile. “You thought I meant the dog. What are you-a member of your own wacky bleeding hearts group? This excessive interest in a stray!” Her insolence froze me in place, as it must have done so many others that she no longer anticipated outrage and was left fully basking in her successes as a verbal slasher. As a girl she had perhaps heard herself described too often as spirited: You should hear her-the things Celia Belfrey says, really too marvelously funny and clever! People just fall apart when she lets them have it. “Speaking of Mr. Manning’s fatal accident brings me back to Mrs. Spendlow and the spectacle Aubrey Belfrey has chosen to make of himself with this dreadful reality show. I’m referring, of course, to last night’s car crash.”
“What does Mrs. Spendlow have to do with that?”
“According to Tommy Rowley, who came rushing round to bring the news early this morning, the woman killed was named Suzanne Varning-”
“Varney.”
Celia Belfrey shrugged. “What does it matter, she won’t be using any name from now on. My point about Mrs. Spendlow is that yesterday afternoon, Nora mentioned that a woman had come to the door saying she had managed to get herself lost and asking for directions to the vicarage. She claimed to have made arrangements to spend a few hours with Mrs. Spendlow, an old friend whom she hadn’t seen in years. I told Nora I hoped she’d had sufficient sense to ask the woman’s name… she could have shown up hoping to get into Witch Haven and have a look around. As you can see, everything I have is valuable and women living alone can be easy prey. Yes, I have Forester, but he’s getting doddery. Years ago he would have grabbed that and provided some protection.” She indicated a longbow that I had not previously noticed-perhaps because it melded with the ambience of the room surprisingly well-hanging above a low bookcase.
“The woman was Suzanne Varney?” I experienced a pang of guilt for having wondered if her real reason for coming a day ahead of the other contestants had been to get a head start on the competition.
“So she told Nora, although one might suppose someone going on a television show in hopes of winning a husband might be inclined to use an assumed name. But tell me, how has my cousin Aubrey responded to this spanner thrown in the works?”
Clearly everything else had been a prelude to this question. Those dark eyes and red lips were eager to absorb any description I could provide of Lord Belfrey dropping his handsome face into his hands when the realization sunk in that his scheme for saving Mucklesfeld might be doomed by the loss of a contestant. Tommy Rowley must not have provided enough succulent details, either out of loyalty to his lordship or because he was a man and typically incapable of bringing the scene to life: Nasty shock for the old boy. Understandably upset. Cup of tea the best medicine under the circumstances. Any chance of my getting one now, Celia?
“I’m a stranger,” I said tightly, “and as such, not in his confidence. Do you know what became of Mr. Manning’s dog?”
“I imagine it was put down. Who wants somebody else’s pet, except of course for my stepmother when taking Father’s Scottie for spite.” A thin-smiled pause. “How is Aubrey’s so-called household staff reacting to the excitement? Did you know he found those three zombies squatting at Mucklesfeld when he moved in?”
“They are clearly devoted to him.”
“Don’t be pettish.” She sat further back on her sofa, settling in for the beans I would inevitably spill. “It’s a wonder one of them hasn’t murdered him in his bed for his wristwatch. As if one couldn’t tell just from looking at them, the word is they all have unsavory pasts. But enough of Wart Face and the other duo. Is the ludicrously named Here Comes the Bride to continue with one fewer contestant, or is some other desperate woman to be roped in as a replacement?”
“I can’t say.”
The black eyes narrowed. “Are they all every bit as vulgar as might be anticipated?”
“I’m not up on vulgarity. As my parents used to say-better to leave that to the experts.” Getting to my feet, I felt I had finally scored a point, but Celia Belfrey was focused solely on the long-bow, which would I felt sure have come from Mucklesfeld, along with every piece of furniture worth grabbing with her greedy hands.
“Why don’t you suggest to my cousin Aubrey,” she said with husky relish, “that if he wants to instill some excitement into what promises to be a very dull television show, he should have the contestants engage in an archery contest. In my father and grandfather’s time-perhaps even further back than that-one was held every year in commemoration of the legend that William Rufus went boar-hunting in the area with one of our Norman ancestors. If it would be helpful,” she smoothed a hand down the knee of her skirt, before returning her eyes to mine, “I could send Forester to provide instructions. He taught me archery as a girl. And what an opportunity for these women to learn something new!”
Oh, my goodness! I thought. The vile woman is hoping one of the contestants will get shot. That there might even be a second death! She hates Lord Belfrey because he has Mucklesfeld-which even in its ruined state represents her place as daughter of the manor.
Suddenly, the loveliness of the room ebbed into dusk. The reasonable explanation was that the sun had moved behind the clouds, but I blamed the fading colors and the emergence of a dank odor on the evil flowing out of Celia Belfrey. I got out of the room with the speed of an arrow shot from that longbow, pulling Thumper along with me. Nora Burton stood at the foot of the stairs. I had the presence of mind to remember the note from Mrs. Malloy to Mrs. Spuds, and ask how to get to Tommy Rowley’s house, before making a dash out the front door and down the steps.
It was still raining in halfhearted fashion, but Thumper did not seem bothered and the walk would be a short one. From Nora Burton’s description, which even mentioned the weeping willow in the garden, it had to be the cottage-style house we had passed on our way to Witch Haven. I didn’t want to think about Celia Belfrey until time veiled the memory of those eyes and that voice, and I could persuade myself that I had overreacted. Instead, I concentrated on wondering about the woman behind the horn-rimmed glasses. How could she bear to stay at Witch Haven? My mind nudged toward something she had said-obviously nothing striking or I would have remembered-something that niggled afterward around the edges of my mind. Something to do with Georges LeBois and Lord Belfrey… I almost had it. Then it was gone.
The overspreading boughs of the avenue shed green droplets that turned iridescent on the ground, shadows brindled Thumper’s black fur, and again I determinedly shifted my thoughts to wondering about Suzanne Varney’s friendship with the vicar’s wife. Had the authorities sought information from Mrs. Spendlow? Livonia had said she knew Suzanne only as an acquaintance, but Judy Nunn might know about family members and others she had left behind. Perhaps as sad was the thought of no one sufficiently close to mourn her passing. It was the rain-making me think of tears. I forced myself to step out more briskly as I left the trees for the narrower lane, which soon brought Tommy’s house into view, along with another thought about Suzanne’s visit to Mrs. Spendlow.
Had she wanted to confide in an old friend-and one likely to know his lordship-that contrary to the rules for Here Comes the Bride, she had a prior acquaintance with him? Or was it more likely, as I hoped, that she had not connected the name Belfrey with a man met years before… at least not until she had seen a photo accompanying a newspaper story about the proposed reality show? If indeed Georges LeBois would have agreed to such a photo, rather than leaving the physical appearance of the bridegroom up to conjecture. A more important question was why was I becoming fixated with Suzanne Varney’s personality when her motives and decisions were immaterial, given that she had been doomed never to enter Mucklesfeld as a contestant?
Thumper looked hopefully toward the brook splashing over its stones to a tune it was making up as it went along. Its banks were low and of rock-studded grass sprinkled with wildflowers. The garden with its spacious lawns and broad flowerbeds was having its final fling before moving into October and the approach of autumn. Then it would wear copper and bronze and smell of woodsmoke and cidery windfall apples.
“Sorry.” I led Thumper past the brook and up the drive that was of similar length to the one at Witch Haven. He looked up at me, his eyes instantly sympathetic. Trust him to know that I was downhearted. Why, I didn’t know. I wasn’t worried that Mrs. Spuds would turn out to be another nasty female avid for bad news from Mucklesfeld. Indeed, I pictured her as a kindly, motherly woman who took pleasure in doing for nice Dr. Rowley, who like most general practitioners worked too hard, skipped more meals than he should, and was lucky to get two full nights’ sleep in a row. Didn’t she always tell him it was a privilege to worry over him until the right woman came along to take on that nice responsibility?
Her image was so clear in my mind that I started when the green front door opened and there she stood, exactly to order-the snowy white hair, cozy figure, and best of all the kind face. Even so, her first words plunged a stake through my heart. “My word! Who have you got there but old Mr. Manning’s Archie!”
“Archie?”
“Mr. Manning named him after the Archbishop of Canterbury.” Mrs. Spuds beckoned us inside. “He said that even as a puppy there was something uplifting in those dear brown eyes.”
“There is.” I could not look into them. Did he sense that the moment of parting was closing in? “I’m Ellie Haskell. My husband and I are staying at Mucklesfeld for the coming week.”
“Bless you, love, I know who you are from Dr. Rowley’s description. What a shame you were taken poorly like that! Feeling a lot better this morning, I hope? How did you come upon Archie?”
“He came in through my bedroom window.”
Mrs. Spuds didn’t seem to find anything particularly strange in this. Perhaps she thought I had been sleeping on the ground floor. “You’ve taken to him, I can see that. What needs explaining is that Mr. Manning died some months back and his daughter took Archie to live with her and the hubby like she promised her dad.”
“I heard about Mr. Manning from Celia Belfrey when I went to Witch Haven at his lordship’s suggestion, but she thought that”-my voice caught-“the dog had been put down.”
“That would be her, always hoping for the worst. How that acid-tongued woman can be related to Dr. Rowley or Lord Belfrey-although I don’t know him as well-beats me.” Mrs. Spuds shook her head. “I’m amazed you got your foot in the door, love. No wonder you’re looking in need of a sitdown. If you don’t mind the kitchen, I’ll make you a cup of tea, and afterwards, if you like, I’ll phone Mr. Manning’s daughter and let her know Archie’s turned up.”
“Won’t she be terribly worried?” I followed her through an open door with Thumper-Archie-pressing closer than usual, and sat down on the chair Mrs. Spuds pulled back from the table. It had a yellow and white checked cloth and in the middle was a bottling jar filled with leafy twigs. Altogether the kitchen, with its wide modern window above the sink, cream Aga, and old-fashioned dresser with blue and white china, looked much more cheerful than I was feeling with that soft nose nudging my knee.
“I wouldn’t think she’ll be in a panic, love.” Mrs. Spuds set the kettle on the stove and reached for the tea caddy. “She’s a nice woman is Linda Dawkins, though ready enough to say she’s not an animal lover. Which isn’t a crime. What would please me would be for… Dr. Rowley to get himself a nice puss.” She opened the fridge for the milk. “Both Linda and the hubby are Dr. Rowley’s patients.” I nodded before bending down to unknot Lord Belfrey’s tie from around… Archie’s collar, my fingers lingering in the black velvet fur.
Having placed a cup and saucer in front of me, Mrs. Spuds patted my shoulder. “I also know Linda from playing whist at the church hall when they need someone to fill in. I’m not one of those keen card players, like she is. Both goers, her and the hubby. Never ones for a night by the telly.” She fetched her own tea and joined me at the table. “Home’s where I like to be when I’m not working-although you can’t call it work when it comes to doing for Dr. Rowley.”
“He seems very nice.”
“Kindness itself. Such a shame he’s never married. Shy with women like my Frank was until we got together. And like he’d have said, God rest his soul, it’s a good thing we’re all different. He wouldn’t have liked to hear me sounding critical of Linda Dawkins. I hope you didn’t take it that’s what I was doing.”
“Not at all.” I smiled at her. “You were filling in the picture.”
“Celia Belfrey’s another story, although I have tried to feel sorry for her. Imagine growing up and living out your youth at Mucklesfeld! To my mind it’s a Chamber of Horrors,” Mrs. Spuds stirred her tea, “which I’ve said to Dr. Rowley when I shouldn’t, him almost certain to come into the place one day, unless he goes before Lord Belfrey. Is the tea how you like it? I didn’t put in much milk,” she moved a small pansy-painted jug my way, “add more if you like.”
“It’s just right, thank you.”
“Do you have a dog of your own, love?”
I shook my head, while a voice inside me cried out that Archbishop Thumper was my dog.
“Understandable Linda finds it a bind having to get back from her outings to see to Archie, or that-not being used to having an animal-she sometimes forgets to keep the garden gate shut. Like she said to me when we met in the high street, the responsibility all falls to her during the day, and when the hubby gets home at night he’s entitled not to be bothered. But there, she’ll stick to the promise she made her dad.”
“That’s something.” My heart sank and my hand went down to Archbishop Thumper’s head.
“A finer old gentleman you’d never wish to meet than Mr. Manning. Feeling all right, love?” Her kindly face searched mine.
“Fine. I’m interested in Mr. Manning.” How could I not be in the man who had raised such a wonderful dog?
“Terrible what happened.” She watched me take a swallow, as I might have done when glad to see the children start downing their milk. “Crossing the road, he was, on his way to have a chat with Mrs. Jenkins from the house opposite, and mustn’t have seen the car coming, although the driver told the police he was going slow, which a couple of witnesses agreed was true. Well below the speed limit, they said. Probably Mr. Manning had his mind on his Brussels sprouts. Devoted to his sprouts, was the old gentleman, used to get worked up about them coming out in brown speckles the way a mother worries when she thinks her child may get the illness with the rash that’s going around. If only he’d looked right, left, and right again like we were taught in kindergarten. The one blessing, love, was that Archie was inside at the time.”
“If only”… those had to be among the most agonizingly futile words in the English language. If only the exterior lights had been on when Suzanne Varney drove through the gates at Mucklesfeld. If only she had parked on the drive and sounded her horn. If only the phone hadn’t been out and medical help could have been fetched more quickly. Dr. Rowley had said death would have been instantaneous, but could that be certain? Might he not have wished to provide some minimal comfort to Lord Belfrey?
“The poor doctor, who’d have his job? is what I used to say to Frank.” She poured us both a second cup. “He was making a house call just a few doors down the afternoon the old gentleman got run down. Someone recognized his car and fetched him to the scene. Very upset he was when I saw him next.” I guessed what was coming. “And now there’s been this other terrible accident. That awful fog! I don’t know when I’ve seen one so bad in a long time. But no need to tell you that, love, when you and your hubby and friend were out driving in it like the poor young woman, just a short time before.”
“It was like driving through a mattress,” I said.
“I was here when Lord Belfrey came to fetch the doctor. These last few years I haven’t had Frank to hurry home to, so I’m more than pleased to stay on and put his dinner in the oven. The mercy was that he’d just got back from going on a walk.”
“In the fog?”
My startled exclamation roused Archbishop Thumper to place his head on my knee as if to save me from bouncing up in the air. Mrs. Spuds’s periwinkle blue eyes twinkled. “Wonderful as he is, Dr. Rowley has his odd ways. Same as most men, including my Frank-for him it was going on peculiar diets, like the time all he would eat was butter beans with vinegar. For years the doctor’s kept a skeleton from his medical student days in the hall wardrobe. When he comes in, I’ll be asking him where it’s gone because it wasn’t there this morning. The fog wasn’t so bad when he set off-saying he was stiff from sitting in the surgery late into the afternoon and a walk would help loosen his back-but between you and me, love, it had seemed to me he’d been a little down in the dumps all week.”
“Might that have had something to do with the start of filming Here Comes the Bride?”
“You mean that he might not have approved? I wouldn’t think so, love. What goes on at Mucklesfeld has never seemed to interest him overmuch. There was a rift, you see, between his father and grandfather that led to the change of name to Rowley, and the doctor was brought up not expecting any closeness with the Belfreys. His late lordship treated him strictly as the local GP. As for Celia Belfrey, I’ve always thought the only reason she’s accepted him halfways as a relation is he’s the only person willing to spend half an hour in her company. His mother-that wasn’t considered good enough to marry into the family-was the same wonderfully kind sort. A lovely home she made here,” Mrs. Spuds looked around the kitchen, “and bless him, Dr. Rowley has kept things just like she had them. And now,” she got to her feet, “why don’t you stay resting yourself while I go into the sitting room and give Linda Dawkins a ring?” She hesitated in the doorway when Archbishop Thumper gave a low whine before putting his head down on his paws. “Just listen to him; anyone would think he’s not keen to go home.”
“Will she really want him back?”
“Not want, love, but there’s that promise to her father, and Linda’s the sort who’d worry she’d go to hell if she broke it. A shame,” the blue eyes took in every inch of my face, “that he can’t be with someone who’d love him as much as Mr. Manning did. And him such a young dog-not more than two, I’d say. But sadly, life’s what it is, as my Frank used to say.”
Mrs. Spuds disappeared and, with the kitchen door left ajar I soon heard her voice, although not what she was saying, speaking in interrupted intervals. Meanwhile, I sat with hands clenched in my lap. I must not allow Archbishop Thumper or myself to hope. For what? That Mr. Manning had contacted Mrs. Dawkins from beyond the grave to tell her he was releasing her from her promise, and that she should let the nice woman who’d found his beloved dog seek a loving home for him, if keeping him herself was out of the question. Which of course it was. Hadn’t I for years told Ben and the children that bringing in another animal wouldn’t be fair to Tobias, who was used to being a pampered only pet? That the time for a dog would be when he went to cat heaven? Besides… what to do with my new friend in the meantime? It would be too much of an imposition to take him back to Mucklesfeld, although I was sure Lord Belfrey would be nice about it-if only because I was the one asking the favor. No, I must bite the bullet.
When Mrs. Spuds came back into the kitchen, I turned to look up at her. “Were you able to reach Mrs. Dawkins?” My voice stayed steady even when I felt the soft furry face shift to my foot.
“Caught her just as she was about to leave for the hairdresser. Like I thought, she hadn’t worked herself into a state about Archie, but said she’d be around to fetch him after her appointment if I didn’t mind keeping him for another hour. Which of course I don’t, love.”
“Thank you.”
“No trouble, is he? Now,” avoiding looking directly at me, “how about you staying for a bite of lunch?” Her eyes went to the wall clock. “It’s close on noon and I always get something ready before half past in case the doctor decides to come in between morning surgery and his afternoon rounds. Most often he doesn’t, being pressed for time, his patients do like to keep him chatting, so I always do something that can be saved for his tea. Just before you arrived, I’d decided on making salmon and cucumber sandwiches. It’s red salmon. I don’t mind the pink myself, but as I used to say to Frank, you can’t expect a doctor to eat pink salmon. Especially one that works as hard as my Dr. Rowley.”
“That’s awfully kind of you, but I should get going.” Moving would necessitate dislodging Archbishop Thumper’s face from my foot. While I was bracing myself, I remembered my reason for coming here. Putting my hand in my pocket, I felt the piece of plastic that had been in his mouth when coming up from the ravine after replacing the bouquet. My hand felt for his silken head. Then I drew out Mrs. Malloy’s note, got to my feet, and handed it to Mrs. Spuds.
“One of the contestants asked me to give this to you.” I didn’t add that she was a friend of mine, so as not to put pressure on Mrs. Spuds. She unfolded and read it. When she looked up, I saw the uncertainty on her face.
“I don’t know, love. Even if this lady is paying, I wouldn’t feel it right to speak to any of the ladies I know about giving a hand at Mucklesfeld without first talking to Lord Belfrey. And I’m not sure I want to put myself in the middle like that. He and Dr. Rowley have begun to establish a nice relationship-working toward becoming friends after all these years of not having contact, let alone seeing each other. No, love, I think I’d best stay out of things. Would you mind telling that to the lady?”
“Of course not,” I said, sensing there was something held back.
Mrs. Spuds pressed a hand to her snowy white hair. “There’s the three people now working for his lordship; I gather he’s fond… protective of them. Could be he’d worry that bringing in extra help might put their noses out of joint.”
Silently I agreed with her on this, but still felt there was more going on. “What about the staff employed by Lord Giles Belfrey? Are they still in the area?”
Now we were getting to the root of the matter. “Bless you, love, there wasn’t anyone for near on thirty years, excepting old Forester. He didn’t go to Miss Belfrey at Witch Haven until after her father died. The rest-butler, housekeeper, and maids-were all got rid of right after Lord Giles’s young wife left him. It was like he went mad with grief. Those that went to Mucklesfeld hoping to help-friends and acquaintances along with the vicar, not Mr. Spendlow but the one before-were met at the door by a disheveled, sunken-faced man they had trouble believing was the one they had known. Like you can imagine, love, the nightmare stories grew and Mucklesfeld became a place to be avoided as quickly as possible, even in daylight. Miss Belfrey stayed on for several years before, so she told Dr. Rowley, deciding that if she didn’t move to Witch Haven, she’d end up as crazy as her father.”
“She struck me as unpleasantly sane.”
Mrs. Spuds smiled faintly. “Apart from her obsession with shoes. Apparently she has stacks and stacks still in their boxes, never worn-enough to fill an entire closet to the ceiling. But then I suppose a lot of women are nutty about shoes.” She paused. “There, love, I didn’t like to tell you how people around here think of Mucklesfeld-not with you staying as a guest of his lordship-but sometimes beating around the bush can make the point you’re trying to avoid. And Dr. Rowley says he’s never felt any evil vibrations or what have you, and if ever there’s a man of sense, he’s it. Like he says, it’s not as though Lord Giles murdered his young wife.”
“But is that the local theory?”
“That’s people for you-a young wife vanishes overnight. It makes a better story than her getting fed up and bunking off.”
“Did you know her?” I gave Archbishop Thumper a firmly final pat and moved toward the doorway.
“Only from seeing her at church or in the high street. I could never make out if she was standoffish or deeply unhappy.”
There was no doubt about the whine that accompanied us along with the patter of paws into the hall. My farewell to Mrs. Spuds was speedier than politeness required, but she clearly understood, saying she would close the front door as soon as I was outside to prevent an attempt to follow me.
It had stopped raining; but instead of thinking kind thoughts of Mother Nature, I took exception to the happy blue of the sky. Dear, dear Archbishop… no, just Thumper. That’s who he would always be to me when I looked back to our hours together. Love had been ours for one brief, shimmering moment in time. It had happened: to his lordship at the moment of looking into Eleanor Belfrey’s eyes as she turned to face him on the staircase at Mucklesfeld… to all those others down through the ages whose souls had communicated in a moment of instant recognition more clearly than the spoken word. Our bond took nothing away from what Thumper had shared with Mr. Manning. Not having witnessed the accident that took his master’s life, Thumper must have continued to expect his return. This explained his making off whenever Mr. or Mrs. Dawkins left the garden gate open. Searching, forever searching, until he came through my bedroom window and the truth revealed itself: that Mr. Manning was gone, never to return except in hallowed memory, and now was the time to live again.
The poignant leaning of the weeping willow brought tears to my eyes. Stop it! I brushed them away sternly. Cease this ridiculous wallowing! Thumper is a dog. A very nice one-affectionate, sweet-natured, but unlikely to remember me except as a pleasant sniff or two if we crossed paths in a fortnight. Which wouldn’t happen anyway because within the week I would be back at Merlin’s Court with all who mattered most, Ben and the children and Tobias on my lap. I resolutely ignored the possible absence of Mrs. Malloy. That too-of far greater significance than a black Lab-must be borne if necessary.
I trod purposely on through the high street. When coming up the drive at Mucklesfeld, I saw Lord Belfrey and Judy Nunn standing in front of the broken wall. She appeared particularly diminutive next to his tall figure, but it was clear from her feet-apart stance and energetic gesturing that she was in no way intimidated by him. I saw him nod as if in agreement. To walk behind them to reach one of the back doors into the house seemed inappropriate, particularly when I noticed a long-haired cameraman who on shifting position looked to be the girl named Lucy. It would have to be the front door, I decided.
This meant ringing the bell, sending a rumble of thunder down my spine if not throughout the entire interior. Fortunately, for me if not for him, Mr. Plunket must have been standing with nothing to do within inches of the door. He opened it as if expecting the black-hooded Grim Reaper complete with scythe and logbook… sorry, no death quips after yesterday evening. Stepping aside to allow me to creep around him, he wished me a good afternoon as if announcing that there had been an official statement from Buckingham Palace that the world was to end in twenty minutes, and all who were able should immediately vacate the planet or face a heavy fine. I parted the shadows with my hands and smiled at him through my own sorrow.
“Hello, Mr. Plunket. I see you escaped from the pantry.”
“Pantry?” That could have been him or the mournful echo of my own voice.
“Or whatever cubicle you and Mrs. Foot disappeared into when Monsieur LeBois ordered you out of the kitchen this morning.” I pictured a dark space where tuftless brooms and rank-smelling mops were sent to die. Oh, bother! I was doing it again!
“The artistic temperament. I’m sure he means to be nice.”
I stared at Mr. Plunket and thought: Here is a man who can make allowances for the foibles of others when surely he must know that some-meaning Georges LeBois-spoke of him as Wart Face and others (including myself) harbored equally unkind thoughts. Never again, I vowed, would I notice anything except his devotion to Lord Belfrey, Mrs. Foot, and Boris.
“How did the rest of the morning go?” I asked him.
“Very exciting.” No gleam of enthusiasm accompanied this response. “His nibs met with all the contestants as a group and afterwards with each in turn. Them camera people kept coming from every which way with their equipment, giving orders like they’re the ones owning the place. It’s a wonder his nibs isn’t worn to the bone, but he made sure to pass the time of day when he saw me crawling one of the upstairs passageways calling for Whitey. It turns out he’d escaped from his cage-not his nibs, I don’t mean.”
“I understand.”
“Poor little Whitey! Mrs. Foot and Boris has both been frantic. She broke down in tears after your husband asked for a torch to check something inside the cooker, and the one that’s always wedged under a corner of the sink cupboard to keep it straight wasn’t there. Must have got knocked out and rolled somewhere. Boris and me both knew what was really getting to her. Whitey’s like the child she never had.” Mr. Plunket wiped an eye. “But then she remembered a hole in the wall in that upper passageway and thought perhaps he’d hidden out in there. I thought I heard a squeaking, but it could’ve been wishful thinking.”
“He’ll show up.” I spoke with awful certainty.
Mr. Plunket’s eyes widened. “Are you one of those, Mrs. Halibut…?”
“Haskell.”
He nodded. “One of those with psychotic tendencies?”
It took a second for the penny to drop, at which point I saw no harm in giving him the response he wanted without lying. “I don’t claim to be psychic, but I do have feelings.” The air around us hummed portentously. “My husband calls me a sensitive.” True. Ben said something to this effect every time I presented him with his missing watch or reading glasses.
“Then you think Whitey is all right?” Mr. Plunket’s voice throbbed with hope.
“I’m certain,” I closed my mind to the thought, “that in the very near future he will make a grand reentrance. “Speaking of my husband…”
Mr. Plunket displayed a clairvoyance of his own by finishing my sentence: “… he was in the kitchen less than five minutes ago serving Monsieur LeBois his lunch. Tadpoles in some savory sauce, I think it was. Perhaps, if you won’t mind me saying so,” he stared through me, “it’s the house.”
“What is?” I was struggling to think what Ben could possibly have cooked. It would serve Georges right if it really was something scooped out of an algae-covered pond with a net. Let him stick that in his bouche. Sometimes nastiness is good for the soul, especially when one’s heart is aching for a black Lab.
“Sending you messages about Whitey. And who knows what else.” Suddenly, a shadow overlaid the enthusiasm, succeeded by a look of dread.
“Oh, I wouldn’t think there’ll be anything more! One premonition a day… a week… a month is the most I, a rank amateur, can produce.” I hated to leave him standing there, but my powers were sufficient for me to realize he wanted me gone, preferably from the face of the earth. So I headed for the kitchen.
Did he fear that those supposed powers would produce a meeting between myself and a visitor from beyond the grave? One who would impart information amidst much moaning and shimmering of vapors that Giles Belfrey had murdered his young wife, and then lead me to where Eleanor’s remains had been concealed all these years. His concern of course would be for Lord Belfrey. Perhaps he was unaware that these days it is not considered politically correct to judge people by their relatives. And a good thing, too, considering most of us have ones that would make the devil blush. But his lordship was a stranger to each of his prospective brides, and perhaps only a woman madly in love could be expected not to wonder if there might be a family tendency to do away with wives who forgot to say please when asking to have the butter passed.
I had not expected to be thrilled at the sight of Georges LeBois. But seeing him pulled up in his wheelchair to the kitchen table countered the ache I was feeling. He had a giant-sized serviette (possibly a tea towel) tucked into the neck of his waistcoat, while he chomped down on what I hoped were not tadpoles-however wondrous the savory sauce.
“So you’re back,” not bothering to look up. “Find the owners of that dog you had stitched to your leg?”
“I did. What are you devouring?”
“Baby frog legs in a Champagne reduction. Care to join me in a spoonful?” He flourished a paw, indicating any of the available chairs.
“I’d rather die in the clutches of the Metal Knight.” Seating myself across from him, I watched him close his eyes in ecstasy. “Apparently you are satisfied with my husband’s services as temporary personal chef.”
“Ma chèr enfante, I would marry him had you not beaten me to punch.” He raised his lids to survey me sorrowfully. “And do you, naive creature that you appear to be, appreciate his gift to the world? Do you worship at his sautéing pan? Do you so much as know the difference between a flan and a crème caramel?”
I ignored this. “Where is my husband? I hope you haven’t got him locked up in a cellar until he promises never to leave you.”
“Gone to search his lordship’s desk. He needs to check some malfunction inside the cooker and I remembered seeing a red torch in one of the drawers. As a boy I longed for a pair of bicycle clips, a paper punch, and a red torch. Those ambitions, simple as they may sound, shaped my life-drove me to succeed. I do hope our mutual friend won’t be long.” Georges set aside his empty plate with one last, lingering look. “I am aquiver with anticipation to know what he has planned for dessert. A white chocolate mousse Grand Marnier would do very well, although my hopes are set on an old-fashioned bread and butter pudding, with lots of raisins and a thick hot custard on top.”
Either would have suited me down to the ground, but I hardened my heart against any prospect of emotional bonding with the awful man. “What of the peasants?” I asked.
He removed the napkin from his neck and dabbed his lips. “Who?”
“The contestants. Do they get to scuffle around the scraps from your table or have they been assigned kitchen time to prepare their own meals?”
“Your husband has a fault-an affinity for the common man, or in this case woman. He discussed the matter with his lordship and it has been agreed that for today at least he will also prepare their meals. All six will shortly gather in the dining room for a simple-though assuredly delectable-luncheon of soup, salad, and I believe blackberry and apple pie.”
Feeling starved to death, I reached for the bread plate and lavished a slice with butter. “How did this morning’s filming go?”
“Reasonably well. Lord Belfrey did all that was required, looking handsome and making a graceful welcoming speech. Among the women, Judy Nunn responds the most naturally to the camera. Livonia Mayberry isn’t as stiffly timid as I thought she’d be and of course your friend Mrs. Malloy is the consummate scene-hogger.”
“Good for her,” I responded stoutly. “Who else?”
Georges gusted a sigh. “There is a Mrs. Wanda Smiley, who unfortunately smiles too much and is altogether full of herself; an Alice Jones equally enchanted with her post-hippie self; and a Molly Duggan who doesn’t have a self. I have yet to pull the takes up on-screen in the inner room off his lordship’s study. You’re about to say you didn’t notice any such door when you went in against written instructions. Oh, fear not! No one informed against you. I know a born snooper when I see one.” He smiled smugly and I started to munch. “There’s a sliding panel behind the desk. Mucklesfeld boasts several such cunning devices.”
“Oh, Monsieur LeBois,” I pressed a hand to my throat, “pray do not fail to make use of them!”
The bird eyes twinkled nastily above the Roman nose. “Trust me to do my worst, dear lady. Do come to the inner sanctum, only when I am there, of course, and take a look at what we have before the editing.”
“That’s a lovely invitation, but I’ve been thinking I may go home and return for Ben… and possibly Mrs. Malloy… at the end of Here Comes the Bride. After all, there is nothing for me to do here.” Before I could make a fool of myself by explaining that it would surely be easier to recover from the loss of Thumper away from Mucklesfeld, Georges pounced as if I were a baby frog leg materializing on the empty plate.
“Leave? My dear, you must do nothing of the sort. I’m sure your husband depends on you to fire his culinary genius, and if such obligations do not move you, I require your presence.”
“Why?”
“To keep your friend Mrs. Malloy from disrupting the cordial relationship that seems presently to exist between the other five contestants. That woman is a cat amongst the pigeons if ever I saw one. It is clear she has taken a dislike to Judy Nunn and Livonia Mayberry and is itching to set the feathers of the other three flying.”
I reached for a second slice of bread. “She’s bound to feel a bit of an outsider, not being a link in your human chain.”
Georges smirked. “The possibility of sparks ignited from an interconnection between the contestants has irresistible appeal. I flatter myself I have set matters up very nicely, but ideas spring eternal. And my most recent one involves you.”
“Me?”
“No need to gape. You’re a nice-looking young woman, but even a beauty with a capital B does not come off well with goggle eyes and a dropped chin. All I require of you is your presence at some of the sessions in which the contestants get together outside the presence of Lord Belfrey. I realized this morning when recording their stilted gibbering that an outsider was needed to nudge the conversation along and keep it from straying too far off course. I only have so much patience when it comes to weeding out the fluff.”
“And how explain my role?”
“You are an interior designer, intent on exploring each of the contestants’ plans to reinvigorate Mucklesfeld. Come, come, Mrs. Haskell, perceive the possibilities of extending your client base. You, along with your husband, will be listed amongst the credits.” Georges eyed me narrowly. “Tell me, do you still want to leave?”
I told him I’d have to think about it, but I knew I’d cave. Leaving Mucklesfeld without watching Here Comes the Bride unfold would be the equivalent of abandoning the drawing room at Merlin’s Court to its own devices in the middle of spring cleaning.
“Your first assignment will be afternoon tea at three today in the library.” He pressed on as I remained silent. “Your husband has promised a fine spread.”
Unfair! my heart cried out. I was ever a slave to cucumber sandwiches with the crusts removed, munchable scones, wafer-thin biscuits, and delectable little cakes, to say nothing of several fragrant cups of Earl Grey.
“Oh, all right, you win,” I was saying when Ben walked in to inform Georges that he hadn’t found the torch, while giving me a look that seemed just a little frosty.