I t was the gown that chilled me to the core. Something about the cruelly draped neckline convinced me that here was the lovely ivory creation Eleanor had worn when posing for the portrait. I knew it was impossible that the hideously grinning skull and dangle of bones were her remnants, unless Nora Burton had lied to me and the physical resemblance to the vanished bride had been a lucky (for her) happenstance.
The spirit of adventure that had sustained us to this point evaporated. Not a word was spoken as we edged past the appalling object and hurried en masse up the next flight of stairs. But numbed though I was, I remembered Mrs. Spuds mentioning that Dr. Rowley’s skeleton from his student days was missing from the cupboard in his study.
Had it been nabbed or given willingly? More likely the latter. If Georges had mentioned to Tommy his need for one as part of the activities planned to help choose the right bride for Lord Belfrey, who could blame a fond cousin for stepping into the breach? The more sinister question was, who had suggested and perhaps offered up Eleanor’s gown? And why? Why take the risk of grievously wounding Lord Belfrey, knowing that he cherished her memory? Or was that exactly the point? Was someone seeking to provoke his lordship into putting a stop to the filming? If that was the hope, it would fall flat if none of the contestants babbled a description of the skeleton’s ensemble, which from the current vibes I was getting seemed likely.
On reaching the final steps, we were faced with a piece of paneling, which after a limited amount of poking and pushing by Judy slid sideways to reveal the library gallery. So this was how Lady Annabel had gained admittance, shielded from blatant sight by the sudden dimming of the lights. The place above and below was unoccupied. No audience to greet the return of the wanderers, no disembodied applause, not even a door ajar to provide mirthful or sympathetic peeking. Judy said she was more than ready to go outside and continue working, while the others, including Mrs. Malloy, seemed eager to scatter without further comment. I was ready for a word with the evil mastermind. I’m sorry to say that the thought I gave to Ben was a passing one. Events had pushed from my mind his witnessing the starry-eyed moment I’d shared with his lordship. Had I remembered, it would have seemed too silly to need bringing up. And really, after all, I shouldn’t have to explain myself. If anyone was at fault, it was Ben for being irritated. As a faithful wife I didn’t deserve suspicion.
I was the last to leave the library, and beheld Georges wheeling down the hall from the direction of Lord Belfrey’s study.
“You, sir, are a fiend,” I informed him glacially.
“Spare me your compliments,” he replied with gleeful contempt. “What part of this afternoon’s festivities delighted you most, Ellie Haskell? Was it not generous of me not to leave you out of the entertainment?”
“Not if your hope was for me to faint dead away, as I did the other evening, and have to be deposited on a sofa, causing Lord Belfrey’s chivalrous heart to stir at the sight.” Or, I wondered, had someone else hoped for that outcome, not necessarily with myself but one of the other contestants? Pushing this niggling thought aside, I continued. “Understand, Monsieur LeBois, that I’m on to your idea of setting me as a cat among the pigeons, and if you keep it up, I’ll lock myself in my pokehole bedroom and not come out till it’s time to leave Mucklesfeld.”
“Speaking of holes…”
“Let’s not.”
“Then the music?”
“The only thing I’m willing to spend time talking to you about is…”
“Madame Skeleton? The pièce de résistance, would you not agree, my dear Ellie?” His eyes burned above the beaky nose, the fleshy face quivered with sly pleasure. “Was it not sporting of Tommy Rowley to loan it to me?”
“Did he,” I asked with a sinking recollection of Livonia’s sweetly gentle face when talking about the doctor, “also give you the dress that pathetic bag of bones was wearing? And if so, did he tell you to whom it belonged?”
“Of its provenance I am ignorant,” Georges said with supreme indifference; then a dawning alertness passed over his bloodhound features, suggesting he was telling the truth. “From your manner, dear child, I now hazard the guess that the onetime wearer was Eleanor Belfrey. I was told-by whom I will not divulge, so much do I adore hoarding secrets-that its well-preserved condition was due to its having been carefully stored.”
“In a drawer or chest in Lord Giles Belfrey’s bedroom,” I said more to myself than to Georges, the one room perhaps that his daughter, Celia, had been prevented from entering, since it was locked and the key placed in his pocket on leaving. But what if-another possibility came hard on the heels of the first-Celia had taken the gown to Witch Haven, to gloat over as she did the portrait, and it was she who had given it to Georges?
“If you don’t want Lord Belfrey to tell you Here Comes the Bride is done with before it’s finished, you’d better make sure whoever provided that gown understands the necessity of keeping his or her mouth shut. The sense I get from the contestants is they’re a decent bunch, uninclined to chatter beyond themselves about such a mockery of death.” With this parting thrust, I left him to make my way up to my room, where I found Ben asleep on the bed. A few minutes later, he stirred and elbowed himself up to stare bleary-eyed at me. Bending forward, I kissed the top of his dark head.
“Hello, darling, back from prowling the rabbit warrens,” I said, plopping down at his feet. “How’s Georges been treating you?”
“Haven’t seen him. I wasn’t worried about your surviving his fun and games-you thrive on that sort of thing, although why he included you in his theatrical folly I’ve no idea-but how did the other contestants hold up?”
“Gamely. We ended up in a cellar, but it didn’t take us long to discover the way out.”
“Mrs. Malloy still reveling in the hope of becoming the next Lady Belfrey?”
“I’m not so sure,” I smoothed a hand over the bedspread, “but I certainly haven’t said anything to discourage her.”
“That would be unsporting, sweetheart.” Was there a hint of sarcasm in his voice? “Not just a lord, but a king among men. You don’t, I gather, hold the nature of these challenges against him?”
“How can anyone? The women must all have had some idea of what they were getting into. If there weren’t anything to be endured, it wouldn’t be the kind of show anyone would watch on television. And if Georges is inclined to go overboard at times, that’s on him.”
“Shouldn’t his lordship insist on knowing exactly what is going on?” Ben swung his legs off the side of the bed and stood looking down at me with that appraising look that he normally reserves for the children when suspecting they aren’t facing up to facts.
“Oh, I know what’s getting to you,” I said crossly. “You’ve got this bee in your bonnet that Lord Belfrey has a thing for me, and like any fool of a woman I’m incapable of not being ridiculously flattered. Well, it is good to know that he likes me-he’s nice and any bright spot is welcome at Mucklesfeld-but what he and I were talking about outside the library was Molly Duggan’s dancing. Ballet. She’d crept in, turned on Tchaikovsky, and morphed into a swan. Oh, I know,” interpreting his blank expression, “that no one would guess from looking at her. That’s swans for you-exquisitely graceful on water, and disappointingly waddly on land. Not that Molly waddles, but she is ordinary, even frumpy, just like the poor little ugly duckling.”
“Are you saying,” Ben sounded both surprised and interested, “that’s she good at all that leaping, twirling on tiptoe stuff?”
“I don’t know enough to tell if she’s an Anna Pavlova or a Margot Fonteyn, but she certainly blew me and Lord Belfrey away. I’d gone into the library to look for the entrance onto the gallery used by Lady Annabel, and he was there…” I got no further because Mrs. Malloy came in and gave Ben a look that suggested he make himself scarce. She plunked herself down on the bed, forcing me to shift to the edge.
“They’re few and far between, but thank God some men can take a hint,” she observed morosely after Ben had shot out the door. “And don’t you go spoiling this little visit, Mrs. H, by harping on about me going off on Judy Nunn.”
“I’ve no intention of doing any such thing,” I said. “The fact that your feet were aching afterwards was a clear sign of remorse, considering you’ve so often told me you’ve been wearing high heels since you were two. Obviously you’ve got it in for her because you’re convinced she’s going to be Lord Belfrey’s choice…”
“That’s not it,” a sigh ruffled the bedclothes, “although I don’t think I’m the only one as thinks she’ll be picked.”
“Then why? She seems such a nice woman.”
“That’s it in a nutshell, I suppose, Mrs. H. She’s one of them sort as never has to bother about what she’s wearing, or if she has her eyebrows on or off, because nobody else cares neither; she’s just Judy as seems to suit everybody down to the ground. Makes me feel kind of inferior, and that don’t happen often on account of me having been three times chairwoman of the Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association. ’Course I’m not saying she does it on purpose, but right from the first I got me back up.”
“Get over it,” I retorted the more firmly because, despite my liking for Judy, I empathized. “I’ve been in that boat at one time or another and it goes nowhere. Besides, if his lordship gets wind that you’re picking on her, you’re likely to dish your chances.”
A pause, causing me to wonder if she had nodded off to sleep.
“That’s another thing bothering me, Mrs. H. At first you could say I was in a dream, picturing meself Lady Belfrey, but like I got to thinking in church this morning, call it a sacred revelation if you like, what’s lovely in books don’t have quite the same thrill in the day to day. A husband’s a husband whatever way you slice him-wanting to know where his socks are when they’re right there on his feet, or stuck in bed with lumbago, banging on the table if you don’t fly up the stairs the moment he wants helping to the loo! And then,” a hesitation suggesting we were getting to the crux of the matter, “it’s not like Lord Belfrey will worship the ground I tread on like Carson Grant did with Wisteria Whitworth. To be picked because I’m good at flapping round with a feather duster won’t have me floating on air, however handsome he is. And anyway,” disgruntled stare, “what woman needs a man as would have you wanting to pick up the nearest knife and give yourself a face-lift when he comes sashaying into the bedroom in his silk pajamas?”
“You underrate your mature charms,” I was saying when the door opened and in came Livonia, clearly eager to talk about the afternoon’s events although displaying an awkwardness in Mrs. Malloy’s presence.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to ask you, Ellie, what you thought of this afternoon’s escapade? Wasn’t the skeleton awful? So… so disrespectful to the poor creature. I wonder where Georges got it?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him if it was his own mother.” Mrs. Malloy got off the bed; as she often says-usually when it’s time for the washing up-she knows when she’s not wanted, “Or his father, for that matter. Looked like a man in drag to me; my third husband had that same silly grin when I’d catch him in one of me best frocks. And them teeth! Women always do a better job brushing!”
I was glad of her interruption. Certainly I wasn’t going to tell Livonia who I believed to be the source of poor Nellie or Ned. But something in my look must have given me away, because the moment Mrs. Malloy went out the door, Livonia sank down on the bed to stare up at me in wide blue-eyed distress.
“Oh, not Tommy-Dr. Rowley, I should say-surely he wouldn’t allow Georges to make such a cruel mockery of…”
“Calm down.” I sat beside her. “If it was his skeleton, I’m sure he never dreamed she’d be put in that dress, which is what made it all vicious.”
“But he seems so very sensitive. So noble… in the sweetest way. When I was telling him on the walk back from church this morning about Daddy’s final days at Shady Oaks, he said he had worked there for a couple of weeks one summer filling in for a colleague, giving up his own holiday to do so. Isn’t that an amazing coincidence? He wanted to know what I thought of the care provided and… well, he was just so kind.”
“Which is why you shouldn’t be bothering your head about that skeleton. By the way, did you ever talk to Suzanne about her father’s treatment at Shady Oaks?”
“I expect so. When we met there, our dads were our only connection. But I don’t remember anything specific. That day in London she said she’d taken her dad’s death hard and changed the subject. She was the type uninclined to give much of herself away.”
“That’s what Mrs. Spendlow, the vicar’s wife, said, although if they hadn’t been interrupted she’s sure Suzanne was going to open the floodgates to her.” I explained the relationship. “Did you get the feeling that inside Suzanne might be a very angry person?”
“No, controlled is how I saw her. Judy, who knew her better-although not close friends-described her as intensely private. She knew nothing about Shady Oaks when I brought it up, or of any personal relationships, with men I mean, only that Suzanne had been briefly married. But she did say she believes Suzanne signed on for Here Comes the Bride to try to escape some haunting sorrow.”
I doubted Judy had used that exact phrase, but I got the point. Fond as I had grown of Livonia, I was relieved when she went. Lying back down on the bed, my mind shifted, lighting on scraps of remembered this and that, until it became a whirl of conjecture. I suspected that Suzanne Varney’s arrival at Mucklesfeld had placed someone in a most awful dither. But murder? I still tried to tell myself that that was carrying things into the realm of a Doris McCrackle novel.
That evening Ben brought a meal up on a tray, which we shared companionably without saying very much. He did mention that no one had eaten the gateau at lunch, and hoped that was because the meal had been interrupted. Not wishing to put any blame on Mrs. Foot, I assured him that was the case and told him I’d love him to make another; it had looked so delicious, I would dream of it for days if not given the opportunity to sample three or four slices. Telling me I looked tired, he asked if I would be offended if he slept in the bedroom Wanda Smiley had been set to occupy before her abrupt departure. Knowing how claustrophobic he must find the cubbyhole, I said he should enjoy a good night’s rest, returned his kiss, and after he had left with the tray, thought about reading. Instead, I did more thinking, before turning off the light and going out like one myself.
I awoke the next morning to find some comfort in the offing. Nothing-meaning Georges-was going to persuade me to participate in that afternoon’s archery contest. A half hour later, I informed Mrs. Malloy of this decision on meeting her in the hall. I was wearing my outdoor jacket-the weather having looked sufficiently dull to suggest the possibility of rain-and was going out for a prowl around the village.
“Well, don’t make a week of it, Mrs. H!” She eyed me through lashes given a furry application of mascara, which brought into lurid play the neon eye shadow, brick red rouge, and purple lipstick. Whatever her despondency of last evening, she had her war paint on today. “You owe it to me to be there to watch, and don’t go denying it. Who got me reading them silly romance novels? And who’s going to cheer me on to a bull’s-eye if you don’t? Won’t be Mr. H, he’ll be inside busy preparing a spread for those as feels like a little something to celebrate the winner. Which I’m not saying will be me, seeing as the Bible says boasters will taste the bitter ashes of despair and wallow in the welter that is the land of Woebegone.”
Although I can’t claim to be a biblical scholar, this sounded more like Doris McCrackle to me, but I did promise to return to witness the event.
“However, don’t expect me to stay if you’re wearing a Robin Hood hat and calling people Friar Tuck, Maid Marion, and Little John.”
“No need to make jokes, Mrs. H!”
I reminded her that I’m always nastiest at dawn, which to me includes nine in the morning, asked her to tell Ben I would be gone with luck for the entire morning, and set off for Grimkirk. After not much wandering down the high street, I came upon a café with an overtly ye olde worlde exterior that suggested more than prepackaged sandwiches and instant coffee. Over very satisfactory bacon, sausage, fried tomatoes, and cups of tea that helped ease the memory Mrs. Foot’s tepidly nasty brew, I again allowed my thoughts to wander down dark alleys. The only sanguinity I could arrive at was that if Mrs. Malloy and I were alone in our suspicions that Suzanne Varney’s death had been engineered, no immediate danger appeared to loom. I pictured myself marching into the police station and pouring out my concerns to the man or woman at the desk and the winking side glance directed at a cohort.
I killed-such an unfortunate word under the circumstances-the next half hour wandering in and out of shops, avoiding the sweetshop on principle. On the brink of buying a couple of finger puppets for Abbey and Rose at the Jack and Jill’s, I reached into my jacket pocket for my purse and felt the piece of plastic I had taken from Thumper when he returned from his excursion into the ravine. The memory was so achingly poignant that I left the puppets on the counter and set off in the direction of Tommy Rowley’s house. What harm would there be in asking Mrs. Spuds if she knew how Thumper had settled back with the Dawkinses? Besides, a longer walk would revive the appetite presently sated by the kind of breakfast I ate at home only on weekends. I planned to stop for lunch before my return to Mucklesfeld and a possible attempt at ensnarement by Georges. Turning onto the long drive off the leafy lane, I wondered if Monsieur Malevolent had hoped that yesterday’s challenge would cause one or both of the more timid contestants to follow Wanda Smiley’s example and flee Mucklesfeld. I doubted he could have guessed that the lure of a dance floor for Molly, and Livonia’s burgeoning feelings for Tommy, had enabled them to withstand all he had dragged out of his sleeve thus far.
I found Tommy prowling around the flowerbeds at the front of the house and explained that although very pleased to see him, it was Mrs. Spuds I had come to see, telling him why.
“She’s gone down to the butcher’s, always does on a Monday. Talked about lamb chops for dinner, very nicely she does them, too, makes the mint sauce herself, famous for it. But you should see her this afternoon, if that helps; she’s planning on going with me to watch the archery contest. Imagine one being held again at Mucklesfeld after all these years; of course there’s no telling if Giles would have been pleased or not. There was no reading him at all during the last twenty years.” Finally drawing a much-needed breath, he stood staring at me in awkward schoolboy fashion. That he was aware he’d been babbling, I doubted. Some strong emotion had him by the throat, forcing a series of gulps as he now looked pleadingly at me.
“Miss Mayberry… Livonia… how is she? Last night in bed, I remembered the skeleton I loaned Georges LeBois. I’m afraid I didn’t think much about it at the time, not then being acquainted with any of the contestants. It seemed a harmless enough prank, since I’m given to understand that a show like Here Comes the Bride must have some scary moments; it’s why I never watch that sort of program. But this seemed mild after someone told me they’d watched one where the contestants had to eat slugs and…”
“That would have been a straight survival show; this one is a mix of romance, if you can call it that, and life’s nitty-gritty.” I studied the weeping willow. “Livonia did seem a little upset at the thought of your lending the skeleton, but I don’t think she will hold it against you if you want to be her… friend.”
“A friend! Dear Mrs. Haskell, my feelings for her go so much deeper! But would one so lovely…” he went on in this vein at such length that I couldn’t not help wondering how much of his reading was confined to medical journals, but he was a dear man-or I was prepared to assume he was, so I listened, made sympathetic noises, was tempted to pat him on the head and tell him he was a good boy, and tried not to look relieved when he wound down. I didn’t mention lunch for fear he would invite me in and offer me a Marmite sandwich while continuing to wax rhapsodic about Livonia. I could have told him about every quivering breath she took, but a perennial schoolboy had to grow up sometime and do his own finding out.
Remembering his providing the tablets that had cured my headache, I wished him well before bidding him a firmly motherly goodbye.
The weather had now turned sufficiently chill to make me glad of my jacket, and thinking that another decent cup of tea would be welcome, I returned to the same café. Shepherd’s pie sounded good and just right for a Monday that had seen said meal served up in many an English household when what was left of Sunday’s joint wasn’t sufficient to be served cold.
The place was crowded, and I was joined at the table for two by a woman in a pink wooly hat and beige raincoat who proceeded to surround her legs and mine with shopping bags that should have needed six arms to carry them. She very kindly told me the haddock would have been a better choice, and then seemed to feel she owed me her life history, which I would have reveled in at any other time. The son-in-law with the ring through his eyebrow who’d never worked a day since the first kiddy was born, and them all three of them such sweet little things, though it was shame Emma-just four as of last Wednesday-every now and then showed signs of a temper that had to come from her other granny who’d had trouble with all of her neighbors going back years, but of course it did no good saying anything…
The waitress, rushed off her feet, was a little slow bringing out our meals, so to show her I hadn’t been in any rush, I ordered the treacle tart and coffee, heard about Mrs. Pink Wooly Hat’s other daughter-the one who’d never given a moment’s worry, except that she did keep changing jobs, and although it couldn’t be said she was living above her means…” Sneaking a look at my watch, I discovered it was a quarter to two, fifteen minutes before the archery contest was due to start. And start on time I knew it would. One of those unpleasant rules of life is that nothing starts late when you hope it will. Also the contestants would be galvanized to punctuality either in the hope of gaining points for themselves or because of a growing team spirit.
I hoped my hasty departure did not offend my table companion, but it was as I expected on reaching the end of Mucklesfeld’s drive and rounding the rear of the house. Mr. Plunket and Boris were adding a final couple of lawn chairs to a row some yards in front of the ravine. Even now, two chairs were occupied by Mrs. Spendlow and the woman I had sat next to in church. I nodded and smiled but did not go over to them. The contestants were grouped together on the lawn above the terrace near the fountain and a motley assortment of worse for wear statues. Perhaps not all of the contestants; I couldn’t see Judy, although being diminutive she could have been invisible inside the huddle. Georges and the crew were positioned close to the house wall. A sturdy, middle-height elderly man in a jacket and cap moved between the two groups, occasionally extending a hand, palm up, as if testing the wind. There didn’t seem to be much of one, but Charlie Forester-for that’s who he had to be-had in his manner of moving and the tilt of his head the look of an expert on all things nature. I could see the bows and arrows on a table alongside Georges’s wheelchair and the round target on a tree to the forefront of one of several small, unpruned groves.
Mrs. Foot came out the door by which Judy, Livonia, and I had entered the house on arrival. I heard her asking Georges if he would like a nice cup of tea, only to be rudely ignored. At which moment I heard Mr. Plunket’s voice raised in what sounded like a greeting, and turned to see Celia Belfrey seat herself in queenly fashion, and to my amazement Nora Burton-alias I knew who-take the chair next to her. Before I could finish gaping, Tommy Rowley joined the audience with Mrs. Spuds, who waved at me in friendly fashion.
But this was not the moment for pondering. Lord Belfrey made his appearance, went up to the group of contestants, and was heard offering words of encouragement and warnings to take care. Echoes of which were then instilled in a crusty, confident voice by Charlie Forester.
“Safety first, for your own good as well as others. Never-repeat, never-turn if someone calls your name or there are any other interruptions. That’s the way serious accidents happen.” He rumbled informatively on longbows and recurve bows. “The thirty-five-pound bows cause more damage than the twenty-five, which will be used this afternoon, along with target arrows-wooden ones with wooden fletches.”
“It all sounds rather intimidating,” I heard Alice say, but with an edge of laughter. “Do we get a good practice in first?” Charlie assured her that they’d all have the basics down pat before firing their first arrows.
Livonia and Molly stood in what to me looked like nervous conversation, while Mrs. Malloy, having actually replaced her high heels with lace-up shoes she must have borrowed, pivoted this way and that, pulling an imaginary bow, eyes narrowed in deepest concentration. Lord Belfrey retreated to stand alongside Georges. What, I wondered, would be his reaction upon approaching his cousin Celia? Would something deep in his being cry out in recognition upon beholding her hired companion? My thoughts had been so occupied with this question I had forgotten the absent Judy, but in turning my head to see if I could detect anything from Nora Burton’s posture, I saw Judy emerge in the familiar hiking jacket from the ravine at a fast pace. Head down as if to carve out more speed, she did not look up until nearing her fellow contestants still hearkening with various signs of interest-Mrs. Malloy’s the least-to the words of Charlie Forester.
“So sorry to keep you all waiting,” Judy said with remorseful embarrassment. “Afraid I lost track of time down there hunting for a few final pieces of stone to finish the wall. Have to go inside and wash my hands, but will speed on back.”
Mrs. Foot, who had the entry door open prior to going back inside-perhaps to make herself one of those cups of tea that no one else seemed to appreciate-held it for Judy and they went in together. At that point, I became increasingly absorbed by what was going on immediately in front of me. If the entire audience and crew had got up and left, I wouldn’t have noticed.
Charlie continued his flow of instructions while the bows were handed out by a blank-faced Boris, hindered rather than helped by Mrs. Foot, when she returned from the house. Provided with their sporting weaponry, the women-still absent Judy-wandered around in circles, occasionally pausing to bump into each other.
“Line up your stance and look directly at target when preparing to shoot,” instructed Charlie, moving, bravely in my opinion, among them. There was quite a bit of turning when being spoken to, despite having been told this was taboo, and much dropping of arrows.
“If you don’t listen, I’ll never make shooters out of you. Anchor index finger to corner of the mouth. That’s not your finger, it’s your wrist,” he informed Mrs. Malloy, who bared her teeth in a smile. “Keep shooting arm straight,” he told Alice. And then to Molly: “Make sure nock is firmly on string.”
What was a nock? I wondered.
“Elbow high,” he said to Livonia.
How very confusing it all was! Which elbow; hadn’t he just said to keep the shooting arm straight?
“Don’t release, still practicing!” For the first time he raised his voice when looking at Mrs. Malloy, who indeed appeared poised to let fly.
Judy came out of the house. Lord Belfrey crossed the lawn toward the audience, halting midway for what seemed like a full minute before moving slowly on. A joyous barking rent the air and… could it be? Yes! It was! Thumper came flying into view, colliding with his lordship and several others-the audience having grown since I last looked. What was to have been a family affair had turned into a village outing. Knowing it was me he had come to see, bless his dear faithful heart, I hurried to greet him before he could further disrupt the archers. I was kneeling on pebbly ground, holding his wonderful furry warmth close, when there was a scream to my rear followed by a torrent of exclamations.
Heart in my mouth, I released Thumper, ordering him to stay, and raced back to the source of whatever had happened. Georges, for once looking anxious, was wheeling himself at speed in the same direction, the crew hurrying along with him, while Lord Belfrey and Tommy Rowley came up behind me. On the ground, encircled by the other contestants, lay Judy. Charlie was kneeling beside her. For a long-excruciatingly long-moment I was sure she was dead. There was an arrow protruding from her chest that had to be close to her heart. Tommy brushed urgently by me, but before he could take medical action, Judy opened her eyes and against instructions from all sides sat up, looking dazed but sounding quite coherent when responding to the babble of questioning coming from all sides.
“I’m fine,” she kept repeating.
“But how’s that possible?” Livonia stood twisting her hands. “You’ve got an arrow…”
“So I have.” Judy looked down and-without a blink-pulled it out. “It must have gone in the notebook in my jacket pocket.” She managed a shaky laugh. “How lucky I am, although,” she added ruefully, “I think I may have sprained an ankle when I went down.”
Here was something for Tommy, at Lord Belfrey’s anxious urging, to examine. While doing so, he admonished Judy in a very grown-up doctor voice for removing the arrow herself. He talked about tetanus shots, and for all the grimness of the situation I sensed his awareness of the glowing looks bestowed on him by Livonia. But the troubling question hung heavy in the air: How had Judy come to be shot? No one asked until Tommy rose to his feet, saying the only injury appeared to be the ankle, which was already beginning to swell.
“What happened, Charlie?” Lord Belfrey placed a hand on Forester’s shoulder.
The keen eyes in the leathery face returned his look man-to-man. “I was talking to this lady here,” nodding at Molly. “They’d all been told not to shoot till I gave word for the first to move in front of the target. Sometimes it happens that someone gets a little too pumped up and releases without thinking.” He didn’t direct his gaze toward Mrs. Malloy, but I saw Livonia, Alice, and Molly steal glances at her. She was gripping her bow… but arrow she held not.
“It wasn’t me!” I could tell from the defiant anger in her voice that she was frightened. “I’d dropped me arrow and was bending looking for it when something whizzed past me. It’s a wonder it didn’t take me ear off! I can tell,” darting looks this way and that, “as how my word won’t be good enough for some.” And why would it be? I thought sadly. Her spite toward Judy-particularly at lunch yesterday, must be fresh in the minds of the other contestants, even if word of it had not spread further to Lord Belfrey and the rapacious Georges.
“It was my own fault entirely,” Judy said, looking pitifully defenseless on the ground over a wince of pain from shifting her ankle. “I blundered toward the others without paying the least attention to what was going on. My mind was elsewhere, so please don’t anyone make something big out of what happened.”
No one had anything helpful to add.
That was the problem; there had been a great deal of preoccupation at the crucial moment. A lack of reliable witnesses, and a continuing suspicion I feared directed at Mrs. Malloy. For the shooter, that muddying of the waters was a gift if the object had been to kill Judy, which I perhaps stupidly, was fiercely sure was the case. If Mrs. Malloy had been hit in the first attempt, another arrow would have been speedily drawn. As it was, expertise or at least a natural hand-eye coordination, coupled with daring desperation, would have achieved the objective, but for the life-saving notebook.
Coming up to me, Ben squeezed my hand. “I’ll offer to help get Judy into the house,” he said.
“And I’ll go and get a glass of water for her. With all the furor, maybe no one has thought to do so.” As I headed off, I felt the comfort of Thumper keeping pace beside me. “Sorry to have ignored you,” I told him, “but being the perceptive fellow you are, you’ll have noticed we had a crisis.” Time later to consider his necessary return to the Dawkinses. Pushing open the entry door, I was grateful for some time to think, but that opportunity was doomed. Halfway down the passageway that would take us through the hall to the kitchen, I heard the familiar hateful scurrying, glimpsed a flash of white, felt Thumper bristle, then all was shrill squeaking, raucous yelping, and flying fur.
“Thumper, stop!” My voice may have reached the tip of his tail as he rounded the corner, but he so outdistanced me that there was not a flicker of black to be seen when I reached the hall. I could, however, hear him with increasingly deafening clarity as I neared the kitchen. That he was capable in this mood of feverish pursuit of standing on his hind legs and turning the doorknob seemed all too probable. The scene I entered upon was mayhem, with hostile overtones coming forcibly from Mrs. Foot, who stood clasping Whitey to her apron chest, while Thumper raced in circles around her like an Oliver Twist sent berserk after being denied a reasonable request for more. Mr. Plunket, weaving like a tree in the wind, stood close by, Boris beside him, wearing the bright pink shirt of yesterday, his right hand-I noted numbly-clamped around his left arm.
“Just look at the sweet darling trembling like a leaf in my arms,” Mrs. Foot bellowed at me. “That dog of yours should be put down-going after Whitey like he was vermin! I’d kill him with my bare hands if it wouldn’t mean dropping my precious!”
It didn’t occur to me to say that Thumper wasn’t my dog. Nor was I compelled to order him to quiet down. Having successfully treed what would have been a very small snack, he looked to me for approval before lying down, nose on front paws, in sighing contentment.
“I came in for a glass of water for Judy, who’s been hurt,” I said as calmly as I could manage.
“That girl Lucy’s already been in for one. We know all about the hoopla, don’t we, Mr. Plunket and Boris? No, don’t you go bothering answering, poor dears. Just look at the two of them.” She rounded on me again. “Poor Mr. Plunket was so upset with everything gone wrong for his nibs, just when his lady cousin decides to visit again, he needed a restorative tipple. It was that husband of yours leaving bottles in an old bread bin where anyone with a stepladder to climb to the top pantry would think to look that started him back on after years of laying off the stuff. Who can wonder at a little lapse the way this week’s gone! My kitchen being taken over! That Monsieur LeBois rolling around the place like he’s king on wheels, never so much as lifting his bottom when I hand him one of my nice cups of tea. Oh, I know his kind-can’t budge a muscle for themselves unless it suits them. Ask me and I’ll tell you he doesn’t need that chair any more than I need wings. But for him, none of you lot would be here stirring up trouble. And Mr. Plunket and I’ve got Boris standing there with his arm tore up by that dog leaping at him when Whitey ran up his leg.”
“Missed that.” Grinning foolishly, Mr. Plunket continued to sway as if in a quickening breeze. “Always did love his uncle Boris, but not more than you, Mrs. Foot. Nobody in the whole wide world,” spreading his arms, “is loved more than you, Mrs. Foot.”
“There, there, Mr. Plunket! But it’s our Boris that matters most right now. Look at him,” this to me, “standing there white as a sheet”-as this was normal for Boris, I hadn’t panicked on looking at him-“and him waiting so patient for a proper bandage!”
I thought snappishly that she was right about that. A dead man couldn’t have looked more patient. “I’m sorry,” I said… suddenly meaning it. There was something heartrendingly sad about Boris’s empty-eyed stare and his rigor mortis stance. I remembered Judy’s kind way with him and suddenly felt close to tears. So much so that when Mrs. Foot worked herself back to a roar-letting me know that if I didn’t get that dog out of the house right now she’d ring the police-I replied meekly that I was sure Mrs. Spuds or Dr. Rowley would agree to return him to his owners.
Whitey bade us a triumphant squeak of good riddance as we left the kitchen, but I didn’t leave the house. Instead, I went into Lord Belfrey’s study-currently the dominion of Georges. I had been seized by the urge to take another look at Suzanne Varney’s photo. Foolish, I know, but I thought that if I could look into her face I might get a clearer sense of who she was… that she might even tell me something. The photos of the contestants were no longer spread over the table. I knew it was wrong, but the impulse to revisit her image was so strong that I crossed to the desk and opened the top right-hand drawer first. Inside were some notepads, pencils, and a torch… a dull red torch. I picked it up, turned it over in my hands, and saw the uneven crack in the plastic and the small jagged gap where a piece had broken off. My hand found its way into my jacket pocket and drew out what I had taken from Thumper’s mouth on his return from the ravine.
He sat, looking up at me with sympathetic curiosity as I sank down in the desk chair and fitted the broken-off plastic back into the torch. Suddenly it was as though Suzanne were in the room with me, striving to tell me what she must have intended to tell Mrs. Spendlow. I felt her anger and grief pour into me. If only… if only fate had not brought her to Mucklesfeld. But it had, and all I could do was unmask her killer.
I now strongly suspected who had lured her down into the ravine with the torch. If I was right as to the who, the why stared me in the face. But if I were wrong, even a subtle change in attitude toward the person in question might be enough to give the tip that the game was up. Also, I risked besmirching the good name of someone who might never be able to convincingly prove innocence of both crimes-the murder of Suzanne and the attempt on Judy’s life.
After repocketing the piece of plastic, I returned the torch to the drawer and was on my way out into the hall when, as so often seemed to happen, I nearly collided with Lord Belfrey. He did not ask what I had been doing in his study. It was apparent that he was as preoccupied as I.
“How’s Judy?” I asked.
“Doing well, apart from the ankle. Your husband and I carried her into the drawing room, where Tommy is administering the required care. What a plucky woman she is. I admire her tremendously, more so I have to admit than the other contestants, fine and likable as they are.” He hesitated and I detected a change in him, a lightening of the heart and a barely restrained joy.
“I saw her, Ellie; something drew me across the lawn. Of course I had to greet those who had come to watch, in particular, Celia-whatever my feelings toward her-but there was a summons more powerful than required politeness. Before I could fully make out her form and features, my heart knew, recognized her despite all the years gone past… those,” he smiled, “those ridiculous glasses.”
“Nora Burton,” I said, “once and always the Eleanor you saw standing on those stairs,” looking toward them, “when you came to Mucklesfeld for the day.”
“You knew?”
“The likeness to her portrait was there, despite the attempt at disguise.”
“There was no time to say more than ask her to meet me at noon tomorrow at the end of the lane leading from Witch Haven. Ellie, I’m consumed with remorse about the contestants, but whatever happens, I realize now, my mercenary plan makes a mockery of marriage. I had increasingly come to know I couldn’t go through with it-mainly because of you. Your resemblance to Eleanor was the reminder I needed that love is worth the wait, even if it takes an eternity.”
“So it is,” I said. “I was lucky meeting Ben when I did. And you still have a long life ahead of you.”
“I’ll always be grateful you turned up out of the fog that night.”
“Thank you. Will you do something for me?”
“Gladly. What is it?
“Put down your foot as master of Mucklesfeld and insist that tonight Judy sleep in one of the beds in my suite. She is going to need some looking after and must not on any account be left alone.”