A lack, poor Thumper! Cast in the role of pariah because he was born a dog! Unfair, my heart cried out on his behalf! Nothing in his bark had suggested a trace of a Scottish accent that would lead one to believe he knew the entire works of Robbie Burns by heart and longed to wear the tartan.
“Whitey would have squeaked his dear little head off before being ripped away from Mucklesfeld, wouldn’t he, Mr. Plunket?” Mrs. Foot was saying when Livonia came creeping back into the kitchen like one of the ghosts said to haunt the house along with the memory of a treacherous Scottie.
“Sorry for disappearing like that. I just needed a moment alone,” she whispered while returning to her chair next to Judy.
“And quite unstandable,” began Mr. Plunket, to be interrupted by Georges LeBois rolling his wheelchair through the doorway and performing a nifty swivel in the center of the room in silent acknowledgment of his audience. I was surprised that Thumper didn’t greet him as a relative of sorts with a friendly woof. But perhaps he took exception to hugely stout men wearing yellow and brown checked waistcoats coupled with crimson silk cravats tucked into aqua blue shirts. A prejudice I could not approve, considering I had once been plus-sized myself, which should have made me less critical of appearances in general, as in the cases of Mr. Plunket, Mrs. Foot, and Boris, instead of thinking wickedly unkind thoughts about them. It was Livonia, getting to her feet along with Judy, who broke the silence.
“Lord Belfrey?” The question combined hesitancy with an overly bright lift of the lips. She had a very readable face. Written all over it now was the awful dilemma of not wanting to find herself affianced to a stranger (she had made clear to me that being a contestant on Here Comes the Bride was only a charade intended to bring Harold either metaphorically or in actuality to his knees) while wondering how she could reject a man in a wheelchair if his choice fell upon her. Everything about Georges LeBois roared out that he was not a man to be pitied, that he did not view himself as handicapped, that he towered in his mind over his fellows with portable legs. They must plod through life while he spun circles around them, vast in size and knowledge of what was going on behind a timidly pretty face.
“’Course this isn’t his nibs.” Mr. Plunket sounded mortally offended by the suggestion. “It’s Mr. Georges LeBois as is in charge of doing the filming of Here Comes the Bride.”
“Oh!” Livonia released a quivery breath and tentatively followed suit when Judy moved to shake his hand.
He inclined his head, making three reasonably sized chins out of one humongous one. “Yes, yes!” A royal wave from a hand the size of a bowl of bread dough. “It will be interesting to see how you each comes through on film. You-the little washed-out beige thing-may be more alive to the camera than Ms. Teacup Face here. That’s what makes for a good take, stripping away the flesh and bone to reveal what’s hiding underneath, if anything.”
“It’s all very interesting, isn’t it, Mrs. Foot?” said Mr. Plunket.
“Oh, indeed, Mr. Plunket,” replied Mrs. Foot, with a return to the normalcy that I continued to find more scary than her greenish-yellow-eyed rampages. “I’d make you one of my nice cups of tea… and the ladies too, if I knew where the kettle had gone.”
“On the rubbish heap, I devoutly hope!” Georges LeBois spun his wheelchair so that its back was toward her and Mr. Plunket. “As for you two,” he notched his bellow down to a rumble in addressing Livonia and Judy, “don’t stand there wasting your simpers on me. Go and announce your presence to Lord Belfrey, he’s the one who may get stuck marrying one of you.”
“And where will we find his lordship?” asked an undaunted Judy briskly.
“In his study.”
Livonia tried but failed to unhinge her jaw.
“And where is that?” Again Judy posed the question.
Georges favored her with the bloodhound smile that could have gobbled up persons far larger than her less than five feet. Thumper might have been impressed had he not decided that the better part of valor was going to sleep at my feet. “My good woman, if you and your husband-seeking companion are incapable of locating a room without being led to it by the nose or by means of a map marked with a cross, you are patently not up to the gamesmanship of the contest ahead. And should forthwith make your absence felt. As you were informed on your application forms,” Georges gestured mightily, “and in subsequent acceptance letters, Lord Belfrey is not looking for a bride of startling beauty or even above-average intelligence, merely one with the modicum of practicality that will prevent her going raving mad before the decorators are brought in to take the cobwebs down.”
“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. LeBois,” said Judy, and with Livonia in tow she serenely departed the kitchen.
“Monsieur LeBois,” he swiveled to call after them as the door closed. “Hmm! That half rasher of bacon may be the one to watch in this race. The other’s pretty and may have more to her than we’re seeing now. But if looks mattered, the winner would have been the one that died… unless her photograph had been doctored, which I don’t think it was. Ah well,” the yellow and brown checked waistcoat swelled and the crimson cravat flamed to his grandiloquence, “that’s life!”
“Not for Suzanne Varney, it isn’t,” I retorted roundly, “and you were horridly rude to Judy Nunn and Livonia Mayberry.”
“It’s his artistic temperament.” Mrs. Foot eyed Georges ingratiatingly. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Plunket?”
“’Course it is, and Boris would agree if he was here. I expect he’s looking for Whitey to give him a nice piece of cheese and tell him he’ll be back among the saucepans, swinging his little heart out on the frying pan in next to no time.”
“Over my fat carcass!” Georges roared with flabby-lipped relish. “As for the artistic temperament, you should know something about that, being married to a chef, Ellie Haskell, if that is your real name.”
“And why shouldn’t it be?”
“Because not everything in this house is entirely what it seems.”
If his intent was to make me quiver and quake, he was to be disappointed. My temper was up. “Very likely,” I said, “you’re certainly no more a Monsieur than Whitey the Rat. My guess is you originated in Tottenham where my husband was raised.”
“We never claimed the little dear was French.” It was Mr. Plunket’s turn to take umbrage. “Abyssinian and Polish is what we said, with a splash of Italian. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Foot?”
Georges turned the wheelchair squarely on them. “I was referring, Mrs. Wife of the Chef, to the suit of armor that comes alive when one stands too close to it, inducing susceptible women to faint dead away.”
“Nothing supernatural about that,” I said, remembering that I had meant to warn Livonia about the Metal Knight. “Mr. Plunket explained that the extending arms and clawing mitts were the result of Boris’s penchant for tinkering with inanimate objects.”
“I did say that, though not with the Latin-sounding words,” agreed Mr. Plunket.
“And no reason why you shouldn’t have.” Mrs. Foot loomed enormous behind the wheelchair. “Very proud of Boris we both are. He’s a genius in his quiet…”
“Unassuming,” supplied Mr. Plunket, displaying his mastery of the English language.
“That’s the word.” Mrs. Foot nodded her head, causing the gray locks to shift like wooly clouds blown along by a fierce wind. “Unassuming, that’s always been Boris. And unappreciated, only think what he’s been put through in the past by them that had to be jealous of his looks and charm and cleverness.”
“For God’s sake, you two,” Georges roared, “get out of my presence and indulge your delusions elsewhere.”
“I still say what you need is one of my lovely cups of tea.” Mrs. Foot spoke in the manner I imagined her perfecting when trundling her trolley through the wards of Lofty Poplars, Leafy Elms, or whatever the name was. That she sounded menacing in a slippery soft way rather than soothing was the fault of her hulking form, witch mane, and hag’s grin, but instead of castigating Mother Nature for cruelty above and beyond, my sympathy went to the patients I pictured using every last ounce of feeble strength to hide under their sheets.
“Out! Out!” The purple mounting in Georges’s face suggested a readiness to mow her down with the wheelchair if she didn’t leap out of range and take Mr. Plunket with her. They took the hint and disappeared through one of several interior doors in the kitchen. Thumper, having staggered sleepily to his paws, sank down to continue snoring contentedly, perhaps happily reliving the moment he had leaped through the window onto my bed.
“You were saying,” I prompted Georges coldly.
“Ah, yes!” He settled back into his wheelchair, spreading himself out to near overflow, with the blatant implication of taking the universe back on his terms. “I lay cheerful claim not only to being the brains behind Boris’s tinkering with the suit of armor, but to instructing him in the setup of several other little surprises which will test the fortitude of the contestants.”
“How interesting.”
“For the bigger, more complicated work, including some whimsical visual effects, along with what I immodestly regard as the pièce de résistance, I sent in professionals earlier in the week. But what satisfies me most fully right now, Mrs. Wife of the Chef, is the hope springing in my…”
“Heart?” I stared at him in disbelief. “You’re hiding one under that waistcoat?”
“I was referring to my self-serving stomach.”
“Silly of me,” I said, as he patted his designated organ of sensitivity complacently. “But do you seriously believe, after speaking to Mr. Plunket and Mrs. Foot as you did just now, that one of them will come out of the pantry-or wherever they went to cower-and toss you a crust of toast?”
“Those two cretins may seal themselves up and join the skeletons already stuffed behind the walls.” The leer that accompanied this inappropriate remark was shocking to behold and I could only be grateful that Thumper did not crack open an eye to witness it. “Let it be hoped,” Georges’s eyes narrowed gleamingly above his Roman nose, “that their vile pet joins his fellows in gnawing at their bones. Meanwhile, I look forward to the epicurean delights your husband will provide for me during the coming week.”
I stared at him blankly.
“I knew him to be a man after my own heart-were I to possess one-when he ignored the Foot woman’s screams for mercy and banished the albino rat, after insisting it be first returned to its cage. My enthusiasm increased when he set about bringing this kitchen out of the Stone Age into something approaching the nineteen fifties by a great deal of scrubbing surfaces and throwing out of disgusting pots, pans, cutlery, and crockery. He agreed with me as I reclined in my chariot proffering the occasional word of advice as to which supplier would most speedily dispatch the caviar exquisite… the pistachio mushroom pâté delectable… the swordfish sublime… the loganberries lip-smacking that my stomach was announcing in impeccable French that it desired.” Georges’s oratory swelled into the operatic and I awaited the sound of wineglasses cracking. After studying my reaction, he abandoned his impersonation of Enrico Caruso and shook his head, puffing out the bloodhound cheeks as he did so. “The point I am making, Mrs. Wife of the Chef, is that before I retired for the night it was agreed between us that my gourmand interests were his.”
“Yours and Ben’s?” A woman who has been awake since the middle of the night and has not yet had a cup of coffee, let alone breakfast, should not be expected to be quick on the uptake.
“Who else?” He blew out a breath, deflating the cheeks, and grabbed the arms of his chair. “Very well, in words that sleeping dog could comprehend! Your husband has agreed to stay on as my personal chef at Mucklesfeld for the duration of the filming, which should take six days should there be no further complications-such as other contestants getting themselves killed.”
“The person who is going to get killed,” I fumed, “is your insufferable self. Of all the insensitive things to say! Poor Suzanne Varney! I hope her ghost appears to you in the middle of the night and wheels you out onto the roof and tips you over the edge. As for my husband promising to stay on and cook for you…” I choked on my fury.
“I would be willing to let others partake… Lord Belfrey and his doctor cousin, should he be called in to medicate a patient who is reduced to hysteria by one of the surprises in store. You yourself may join us at table if you care to do so. My good woman,” he completed a circle in the wheelchair, “I do not see why you are making difficulties. Your husband said he suspected you already wished to stay on for the sake of your friend Mrs. Malloy, who is to take Suzanne Varney’s place as a contestant, and because of your interest in old houses. He mentioned that you are an interior designer. As such,” Georges tried but failed to look cajoling, “I would have thought you could happily wander around Mucklesfeld for a week, mentally redoing the place. It is even possible that when Here Comes the Bride achieves the success I anticipate and the money starts rolling in, his lordship might hire you to put your ideas into action.”
“The opportunity to take down the cobwebs and possibly re-hand them elsewhere is certainly hard to resist,” I said nastily, “but I think I can hold out. Coming, Thumper?” I looked down, flicked my fingers gently, and with my furry-possibly only loyal-friend at my heels, stormed out of the kitchen.
“Given the choice,” Georges bellowed after me, “I prefer rats to dogs.”
“Ignore him,” I told Thumper. My attempt to slam the door behind us failed because it creaked and groaned, making clear that it was old and hated to be hurried. The hall appeared even more crowded than on the previous evening, with oversized furniture from bygone eras that had reverenced excess, especially when it came to the hideous. Elbowing past a dresser with a bloated front that reminded me of a certain stomach, I continued to seethe! That I had been thinking it might be interesting to stay and watch how things turned out-not only for Mrs. Malloy but also for Livonia, who so desperately needed moral support, and for Judy, whom I had instantly liked-did not come into things. That Ben had made a commitment to Georges LeBois without consulting me wasn’t how our marriage worked.
I was about to storm back to the bedroom when I realized that I didn’t remember how to get there. I cast an irritable glance at the staircase, with its massively carved, age-blackened banisters and its look of having seen more than its fair share of coffins going up empty and coming down filled. Mounting those broad steps wouldn’t get me anywhere fast because Lord Belfrey had taken me up by the back way last night. I made a rude gesture at the Metal Knight (who was definitely smirking), while balking at the idea of returning to the kitchen, stalking past Georges, opening the door through which Mr. Plunket and Mrs. Foot had disappeared, and asking one or both of them to guide me back to the attics.
I was stalled in making even a tentative move when the hall was invaded by two youngish men burgeoning with cameras, tripods, and assorted equipment suggestive of filming. My knowledge of such items was nil, but I admit to a small thrill coursing through my being. Who would have thought I would find myself this close to the production of a television show, whether or not it ever showed up on screen? Both men looked their part-wearing ragged jeans and sweatshirts and having longish, purposefully untidy hair, pierced ears, and artistic expressions. I took them to be the two who had preceded us into Mucklesfeld the previous evening. Both gave me a casual glance and one of them grinned at Thumper, who had moved in for a closer inspection but neither barked nor leaped up at them, for which I was relieved. That stuff they were carrying had to be expensive and Georges would undoubtedly make someone pay if it were dropped. That someone mustn’t be Thumper.
They said something to each other, but whether or not they would have spoken to me remains open to question because the hall grew by two more people lugging technologically advanced-looking… things. One was a young woman with dingy blond hair and dragon tattoos on both bare arms, and the other an older man with gray in his hair but the same air of grungy glamour. The four converged without accident, conversing with an amicable intensity that made evident Thumper and I had faded off their mental screens. It was glaringly obvious that Georges’s crew was on the move while he sat in the kitchen waiting presumably for Ben to come and feed him. Which might be a long time coming if provisions were yet to arrive. I knew nothing of the work ethics of directors, but it struck me that his did not set a particularly fine example.
The hall emptied itself save for Thumper and me. I was considering following the four in the hope that they would lead me to a back staircase that I would recognize, when Livonia came out into what passed for light at Mucklesfeld.
“Oh, how glad I am to see you!” Her face was flushed, her dark hair rumpled, and her voice trembled on the verge of hysteria. “I lost Judy within a couple of moments of going down that little corridor.” Pointing into the morass. “She said it would speed things up if I went left looking for the study and she turned right, but when I had no luck and went after her, I couldn’t find her, let alone any room that looked right. Just a couple with nothing in them. You don’t think, Ellie, that she lost me on purpose?”
“I’m sure she didn’t.” I edged over to put an arm around Livonia while Thumper sat looking on with the soft light of sympathy in his eyes.
“No, of course not, that was awful of me to say. She does seem nice, doesn’t she? Oh, I do hope this competition isn’t making me paranoid already. You don’t think that’s the object, do you-to turn each of the contestants against one another?”
“Well,” I hesitated, “it would make for more interesting television.”
Livonia stared at me bleakly. “I’ve never watched a reality show, but I’ve heard the girls at the bank say the contestants can turn hostile… even bloodthirsty.”
“That’ll be Georges LeBois’s aim,” I conceded. “By the way, why did you and Judy go looking for the study down that hallway?”
“We decided it would be the best place to start after checking out here without any luck. The only door we didn’t knock on and open was the one down there to our left,” she pointed, “behind that huge jardinière with the dead plant. There was a sign taped to it with ENTER AT YOUR PERIL printed on it in great big black letters.”
“That will be the study. Trust Georges LeBois to set you and Judy running in circles looking for the room that he’d designated off-limits. Beastly man! Perhaps,” looking down at my faithful hound, “I can train Thumper to take a bite out of him that will cut him down to size. But Livonia, being forewarned is your weapon against the man and his tricks. I think you should march over to that room this minute and see if Lord Belfrey is in there and have a talk with him as instructed. Point one scored against Georges. If Judy comes along within the next few minutes, I’ll send her in after you. Livonia, you can do this!”
She shook her head. “I was right earlier about wanting to leave. I’m not cut out for this sort of thing; I’ve no stamina for conflict… Harold was correct and so was Mrs. Knox about letting wiser heads than mine prevail. He may not be perfect but…”
“Listen,” I said, “I’ll be here the whole week. Georges LeBois has persuaded my husband to stay on as his chef.”
She brushed at her teary blue eyes. Hope faded from them as soon as it appeared. “But you can’t be with me all the time, and you’ll have your friend who’ll expect you to be on her side exclusively… and rightly so.”
“Roxie Malloy can fend for herself.” This wasn’t entirely true, of course. Mrs. M proclaimed herself capable of living her life without any help from me, especially when she was on her high horse, but over the years we had each come to depend on the other, though never before in matters of the heart. She might well resent my support of a rival… unless I could persuade her that Livonia merely wished to stay in the game as a boost to her self-confidence. I came out of my mulling to note the change of expression on Livonia’s face. It was one of sharp surprise as if a penny had finally dropped with a clang.
“I’ve just remembered why Judy’s name sounded familiar when she told us what it was and she said, didn’t she?, that mine sounded familiar to her, too.”
“Go on!” I urged, while Thumper showed interest by cocking his head.
“It was thinking about your friend that jogged my memory. Judy Nunn was the name of Suzanne Varney’s friend-the one who told her about Here Comes the Bride.”
“Which means,” I said thoughtfully, “that were Suzanne here, it would make for three people with connections to each other in the competition. What are the odds of that happening by chance, if we suppose there were dozens, possibly hundreds of applicants?”
Livonia shivered. “Not strangers then… but people who are in some way woven together being set against each other. It sounds diabolical, doesn’t it?”
“Or a shrewd move in grabbing the viewers’ interest. In the case of Here Comes the Bride, Judy knew Suzanne and Suzanne knew you, so-if we are to follow a pattern of progression-you will know one of the other three contestants.”
“Oh, I see! I see!” Her eyes now widened in horror. “Who could it be? But wait!” She held up a trembling hand. “Unlike Judy and Suzanne, I never told anyone except for Harold what I was planning… certainly not any of the girls at the bank. And Harold wouldn’t have spread it around, would he?”
“Mrs. Knox,” I reminded her.
“Yes, of course! I’d forgotten! I did tell her, but she’s not looking for a husband. She’s got one already. Oh, she wouldn’t have said anything to anyone. It would have been so unkind! But if she did… and we call the person she told Contestant Number Four… then Four would have told Five and Five would have told Six.”
“That’s my assumption, Livonia,” I was saying, and getting a look from Thumper that declared whatever I thought was bound to be right, when the front door creaked mightily before groaning inward, bringing the not unwelcome sight of Dr. Rowley. The tablets he had given me had certainly put paid to my headache and allowed me to get a few hours of sleep.
“Hello.” I smiled while heading toward him with Thumper displaying a welcome in his springing steps and Livonia half hiding behind me. “I hoped I would have the chance to tell you that I am completely recovered.”
“What great news!” He beamed his schoolboy smile on me. “Nothing could be nicer to hear after last night’s tragedy.” The radiant cheer vanished and his voice sank in sorrow. “I have just been down in the ravine laying a bunch of flowers from my garden at the place where it happened. So young a life cut short. I was in shock afterwards and it wasn’t until I woke this morning that the full awfulness hit me! For the first time in years, I felt an overwhelming need for my old cat Blackie. Nothing like sitting with a cat on one’s lap to make the world seem a better, kinder place.” He reached into the pocket of the tweed jacket that fitted snuggly around his tummy and drew out a handkerchief, which he scrunched into a ball and rolled around in his hands. I pictured him doing the same as a stout, round-faced schoolboy endeavoring to appear manly when battling the urge to tear up.
I was wondering what I could say to him when I felt Livonia shift around me and heard her say with markedly less alarm than when she had made the assumption with Mr. Plunket, Boris, and Georges: “Lord Belfrey?”
“His cousin, Dr. Rowley,” I explained.
“Oh, I see!” She continued moving forward until well out in front of me.
Tommy stepped sideways, stumbling to a halt when fully face-to-face with her.
“I’m Livonia Mayberry.”
Why hadn’t I noticed what a sweet voice she had? I waited for her to add that she was one of the contestants, but naturally she would assume he had already guessed.
“Tommy Rowley. I live in the village.”
“Do you really?”
“Just a walk away.”
“So close!”
“Mine isn’t a large house, but it suits my needs. Or would do completely,” Tommy returned the handkerchief with much fumbling to his jacket pocket, “if I could come home to someone… a cat… yes, a sweet-faced cat, waiting for me curled up in the armchair by the fireplace, with the lamplight shining on her glossy dark hair… I mean fur.”
“You mentioned Blackie.” Livonia cut down the distance between them by a couple of footsteps. “That sounds like a male sort of name to my ears, but then,” she was blushing rosily, “it’s so easy for me to be wrong about… everything really.”
“Not in this case, Miss Mayberry.” Tommy’s voice took on a deeper timbre, “Blackie was a boy until his little operation-which we both regretted but I thought necessary.”
“Perhaps next time a female would make a nice change.”
“Indeed it would!” The round eyed, round cheeked schoolboy face under the thinning hair shone with enthusiasm.
There followed one of those silences that tend to become a little overwhelming. To break it-because Thumper looked a little anxious-I blurted out: “Dr. Rowley, Livonia knew Suzanne Varney.” I knew at once that I had cruelly broken the spell cast by two people having what passed for a normal conversation at Mucklesfeld. Oh, to have stepped on my merciless tongue!
The roses faded from Livonia’s cheeks. “And I haven’t been thinking about her near enough.” She twisted her hands together in the familiar way. “It’s been all about me since I got here, hasn’t it? Harold was right in saying I’m completely selfish.” Tommy reached out a hand to her, but she backed away. I saw out of the corner of my eye a silvery glint, and heard, if they did not, a soft whirring… followed by the ominous creaking of metal arms rising stiffly to extend forward in preparation for closing around an unwary throat. Somehow I managed a warning yelp, which was echoed by Thumper; Livonia turned, perceived her peril, and stood frozen for the half second that it took Tommy to swoop her to safety. The metal arms lowered with a disappointed grinding sound as his closed around her.
“I meant to warn you, Livonia,” I apologized.
“How did it come alive?” Her voice was muffled, due to her face being pressed against Tommy’s.
“Georges LeBois’s dictates! Boris’s handiwork! A test of nerves for the contestants. According to the great man, there will be other fun and games.” I expected Livonia to return to the theme of leaving Mucklesfeld without delay, but she was silent while remaining within the circle of Tommy’s arms. It was an agitated squeaking (not her voice) that rent the air. My initial thought was that the Metal Knight was still readjusting its parts. But then came the scurrying… the flash of white bringing Thumper vehemently to life. What had been a mild-mannered gentleman of a dog became a bristling, springing, madly yipping and hollering wild animal. Across the hall he dashed in hot pursuit of… the ultimate fast food.
“Whitey!” I yelled in Livonia and Tommy’s direction, before making my dash toward the staircase where the excitement was headed.
“It was Blackie, remember?” His voice floated my way.
No point in pausing to explain. I doubted Tommy would have heard me; he was fully occupied in shielding Livonia from the cruel world outside his arms. Stupid me, far better for her not to know that Mrs. Foot’s beloved rat had escaped incarceration. Speeding up the stairs in Thumper’s wake, I ordered him pantingly to stop. For once my word was not law and I reached the banister-railed gallery to see him spin in a circle-much as Georges did in his wheelchair-before diving left through an archway.
Why did I not leave him to do his worst when I have an absolute horror, bordering on pathological terror, of mice, let alone rats? The immediate answer was that it would be reprehensible for me to allow a dog for which I now felt responsible to go hounding through the house. Lord Belfrey deserved better from me, as did his staff. A second truth was that much as I loathed the very idea of Whitey, I would have considered myself wicked beyond belief if I had not made the attempt to save him from imminent death. This would have been the case whether or not he was Mrs. Foot’s beloved pet and, therefore, also important to Mr. Plunket and Boris. It was a matter of unwished-for principle and I was stuck with it.
“Thumper!” I bawled, on catching sight of his tail disappearing around yet another corner. “Stop this minute! Weren’t you ever told to pick on animals your own size! Bad boy! Okay, good boy!” Plowing up a skinny, twisting staircase that had appeared to my right, I continued to rant between puffs, but to no avail, as he was now racing down another, particularly dusky passageway. Perhaps a change of tone would work better. “Thumper-or whatever your real name is-come! Come to Ellie, there’s a dear! We’ll go and look for some nice bones without life attached to them!” He turned so abruptly that I collided with a door left standing open. I could not have seen well enough to read his expression even had I not been grabbing my shin, but I sensed his hesitation… a dog torn between duty born of affection and the call of the wild according to Jack London. A vile squeak settled the matter. Thumper plunged through the doorway, with me staggering behind.
This passageway was wider and better lit due to a couple of windows. Ahead of us, Whitey was groveling at desperate speed along the skirting board, until the revolting tip of his hairless tail disappeared after the rest of him into a hole in the wall.
Thumper belly-flopped back to earth, to lie with his limbs at geometrically impossible angles. His pathetically defeated whine tugged at my susceptible heartstrings, but, eyeing my scraped shin, which would undoubtedly develop a bruise, I did not allow my voice to soften when telling him that he was a disgrace to whoever had brought him up. Ignoring his melting eyes, I added that I would be glad to see the back of him. This was not true, and to my instant regret he seemed to take me at my word, getting to his paws and trailing on down the passageway, head low, tail drooping. I was about to tell him that I hadn’t meant it-that I would miss him and would have liked him for my dog, but for the fact I had a cat at home who would be strenuously against the idea-when he halted and in his immobility radiated a renewed vigor, alert and cheerfully alive. He turned to look back at me, stepped forward, and turned again; clearly he was urging me to follow him. A closed door faced us, which I opened, instantly recognizing (as he had already done) that we were back on familiar territory.
“Okay,” I said. “All is forgiven. We’ll pretend this was your objective all along and say no more of the matter.” His palpable gratitude followed me into the bedroom that seemed likely to be mine for the week ahead. Today was Saturday; I stopped counting forward when Ben emerged from the cubbyhole where he should have slept in the previous night. Perhaps it was the distempered bareness of the small space that brought into such stark relief his dark, curly-haired, olive-skinned, blue-green-eyed good looks. Or was it that it seemed an age since I had last seen him?
His first words should have been that he had missed me terribly, prior to launching into an apology for agreeing to stay on as Georges LeBois’s chef without waiting to talk to me about it. But after the briefest of glances he turned his attention to Thumper, standing like a very short sentinel at my side.
“What’s that?” Ben raised an elegantly shaped eyebrow, but for once I was not one hundred percent charmed. A Hello, darling, I feared you were dead and my life forever blighted would have been nice.
“It’s a dog.”
“I can see that.” He moved farther into the room, returning Thumper’s equally intent look of appraisal.
“He,” I stressed the pronoun, “is a black Lab.”
“That too is apparent. I meant why is he with you?”
“A woman alone in the world needs companionship.” I sat down on the bed, peeling my shoes off suddenly tired feet. So far I’d had more exercise in the first hours of the morning than I often got in a week, and after only a couple of hours’ sleep at that. “As you may observe, Thumper here is my devoted slave.”
The dear dog gave an authoritative woof of agreement.
“Looks like it.”
Had I been a character in a book-Wisteria Whitworth for instance-I would have gazed up at Ben through a sweep of long, curling eyelashes. But unfortunately I am not overly blessed in the lash department. His are the kind to make any woman’s heart beat in envy. “Thumper,” I continued piteously, “has filled a void in my life since I awoke to find you gone. You might at least pretend to have been worried about me.”
“I was worried… I was panicked.” Demonstrating the truth of this, Ben sat down on the bed and drew me into his arms.
“Panic sounds good.” I admitted. “But I need to feel it.”
“Like this?” He kissed me deeply. Even knowing Thumper was watching could not spoil the moment.
“Very nice,” I said.
“I was panicked all right.” Ben smiled wryly. “I thought Lord Belfrey had abducted you.”
“If you were seriously afraid of that, why did you leave me alone all night?” I waited for him to tell me about his cleanup of the muck-filled Mucklesfeld kitchen and his talk with Georges about staying on for the duration of Here Comes the Bride, but he kept to the topic of his lordship.
“You must have noticed, Ellie, that the man couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“Only because I remind him of a portrait. A foolish fixation from the sound of it, seeing the subject is Eleanor Belfrey, second wife of his cousin and predecessor Giles, and a woman who sullied the illustrious family name by making off at dead of night with the jewel collection and Giles’s beloved Scottie.”
“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Ellie.”
“Rubbish!” I said. “Just because I snared you by a witch’s spell cast on the night of the full moon does not mean that every handsome man who crosses my path falls victim to my fatal charm.”
“The fellow is handsome, damn him.”
“I’d say reasonably good-looking.”
“Tall, too.”
“Now stop that,” I scolded. “I don’t know why you have this hang-up about being of medium height. I wouldn’t want to have to crane my neck when gazing starrily into your eyes.” Ben kissed me again, but I wasn’t entirely sure I had convinced him. And when he didn’t bring up Georges LeBois, I told him about Thumper’s arrival through the window, Livonia’s subsequent appearance on the scene, and the unfolding of other events. It was when I got to the encounter with Georges in the kitchen that I paused and said: “Your turn.”
Ben did not answer immediately because Thumper, who had been prowling the room presumably in search of hidden recording devices installed as per the great man’s instructions, climbed onto the bed and spread out between us.
“Wouldn’t seem to have heard the saying about two being company, three a crowd.” My husband, who along with the children had always been keen to have a dog if Tobias could be persuaded to give way on the issue, stroked a hand over the silken black head.
“No shifting from the point,” I said. “What’s this about your agreeing to stay on as Georges LeBois’s chef?”
“I haven’t agreed to anything.”
“Lower your voice.” I dropped mine down a couple of notches. “This room may be bugged.”
“Why on earth…?”
“We’re on the set of a reality show, remember?” My alarm was only half feigned. “That man you’ve decided to work for has lots of nasty surprises in store for the contestants.” Any one of whom might walk in here at any moment thinking herself safe from prying eyes and ears.
“Again, Ellie, I haven’t made a decision about Georges LeBois. I told him you’d have to be for the idea and my guess was that you wouldn’t want to delay a minute in getting out of here.”
“That was you last night,” I reminded him.
“At first because I felt embarrassed at barging in on strangers, and then,” drawing his eyebrows together as he does when annoyed, “because I didn’t appreciate Lord Belfrey scooping you up in his arms after you fainted and marching you into that living room as though it was his right to do so.”
“A householder assuming that the blame was his, which was the case; it was his suit of armor, along with Mrs. Foot peering menacingly through the banisters, that scared me half to death.”
“I admit he doesn’t seem to be a bad fellow-not after talking to him for a while, although I can’t imagine how any man could decide on the course he’s taking. I’d let the ancestral house rot before selecting a bride from a group of total strangers.”
“Perhaps it doesn’t matter to him whom he marries if his heart is elsewhere, so long as it is someone he believes he can grow to like and respect. And it’s not as though his wife wouldn’t be getting what she wanted in return, whether it’s the title, the house, or the grounds. Or that’s how it should be-a practical arrangement between two people with their eyes open.”
“Including Mrs. Malloy, Ellie?”
“She is my worry,” I replied over Thumper’s snores. “There’ll be no squashing her romantic dreams. I’ll need to be around to help her to pick up the pieces if she isn’t the chosen bride.”
“And if she is?” Ben reached across the furry divider to hold my hand.
“I’ll be happy for her.”
“You’re sure?”
“Well, of course I’ll miss having her around at Merlin’s Court and I wouldn’t want to take on any sleuthing without her should the opportunity arise. The children will take her absence hard, but we’ll all have to handle the adjustment. However, any of that is at least a week ahead. Meanwhile, I’d be grateful if you’d stay on and prepare meals for Georges. Maybe he’ll turn into someone nice once he’s back to dining in style. It’s not only Mrs. Malloy, although naturally she is primary, that I’d like to keep an eye on. There’s Livonia to be saved from bolting back to the awful Harold, like Whitey scurrying into that rat hole.”
“Don’t tell me he escaped! I left the creature caged in a bolted room.”
“Obviously someone let him out. My guess is Mr. Plunket or Boris; either of those two men would do anything for Mrs. Foot. It really is sad, Ben, all three of them were homeless at some point before they ended up here. I wish I didn’t find them all so spooky. Forced to a choice, I’d rather spend half an hour with Georges than five minutes with one of them, which makes me a despicably unkind person. By the way, has he promised to pay you handsomely for your services?”
“Payment wasn’t mentioned.”
“Good.” I squeezed his hand. “I would hate to be married to a man who can be bought by trifles. But what about the children? Will your parents mind staying on with them for another week?”
“They’ll be knocked silly with delight. I phoned them last night to explain the delay and will give them another call, if you’re sure about this.”
“It works for both of us.”
“You won’t be bored hovering on the sidelines in the midst of all the activity?”
“I’ll hole up here with a book from the local library. But first,” it was surprisingly hard to say, “I have to try to find Thumper’s owner and achieve a reunion.”
Sensing my mood, Ben again stroked the black satin head. “Georges did promise to list me among the credits for Here Comes the Bride.”
“Did you get that in writing?”
“There’ll be a typed contract complete with witnessed signatures.”
“Get it before you boil him an egg.”
“Ellie, I think the guy’s to be trusted.”
“Oh, ye of too much faith!” I tapped him on the knuckles. “What about the phony name and designating himself a Monsieur?”
“All right! He’s from Tottenham, a dozen or so streets away from where I grew up. So he reinvented himself!”
“Hmm!” Hadn’t I suspected as much?
“That doesn’t necessarily make him a complete fraud.”
“No,” I agreed, while thinking how awful it would be for Lord Belfrey and the contestants if Here Comes the Bride turned out to be a complete sham. My elastic mind painted the scenario: Georges taking the opportunity to hole up at Mucklesfeld because the law was after him for a train robbery, multiple murders, or selling secrets to the Russians in return for a land deal in Siberia. I smiled at Ben, telling him that he had lucked into a marvelous opportunity. “Such great exposure! Your name rolling down television screens all over the country. Think of the increase in book sales for you, and the numbers that will come flocking to eat at Abigail’s! How wonderfully providential that the fog brought us to Mucklesfeld on the eve of Here Comes the Bride. Speaking of which, where is Mrs. Malloy?”
The door opened, Thumper raised a sleepy head, and in she stalked, resplendent in purple taffeta and clearly in a bit of a mood.
“Well, I must say, Mrs. H, it’s good of you to show up at last, although I’d have thought you’d have come along to my room as is two doors down and helped me pick my ensemble instead of sitting canoodling.”
Getting to his feet, Ben said he would go downstairs and see if the provisions had arrived from Smithers, Smithers & Smithers, smiled at me, patted Mrs. Malloy on the shoulder, and went out of the room.
“We were not canoodling,” I said mildly. “We were discussing our plans for staying on at Mucklesfeld. That’s right,” in response to elevated painted brows, “Ben is going to be Monsieur LeBois’s personal chef for the duration and I’ll be your shoulder to lean on if you run into trouble with any of the other contestants.”
“Well, I must say,” she did a good job of not looking overly relieved, “it won’t be bad having you around. Although, of course, I don’t suppose as we’ll see much of each other what with a busy filming schedule. And don’t go expecting me to share anything personal that goes on between me and his lordship.”
“Certainly not.” I got off the bed. “You can keep your canoodling moments to yourself. Now let me make sure you’re up to snuff.” I turned her around-a tottery business given her four-inch heels. “Good, no wrinkles.”
“I should think not! Smooth as a baby’s bottom, my face!”
“I was talking about the frock.”
“Oh! Well, of course. So you think I’ll do?” She crackled with nerves, something so unlike her that I had to fight down the urge to tell her to give up on this silly business. “Is me hair all right, Mrs. H? Not too much jewelry?”
The fake ruby necklace and three diamanté brooches were perhaps a bit much. “Perfect! You’re a credit to me and the members of the Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association.”
“That reminds me!” She stuck a hand in her skirt pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper. “I daresay you’ll like to go into the village when things start rolling and you get to feeling in the way of the cameras and whatnot. Meaning there’s no reason you can’t take this note down to Dr. Rowley’s house; he gave me the address and it’s written down. Right here,” tapping with a sparkly flamingo-pink nail. “And what I want you to do, Mrs. H, is…”
“Dr. Rowley is here-or he was when I came upstairs.”
Mrs. Malloy sighed impatiently. “This isn’t for him; it’s for Mrs. Spuds, as comes in to clean for him of a morning, and a very nice woman too from the way he went on about her last night. I’m hoping she can give me the names of a couple of likely ladies to come up here and help me give some of the rooms a cleaning. Although why you couldn’t have offered to pitch in and help, Mrs. H, is beyond me.”
“I haven’t seen you since last night when I was flat out with a headache!”
“Well, there is that,” she gave her skirts a yank, “although like I’ve often said, your timing isn’t the best. But we’ll let that go; what do you think of my showing Lord Belfrey I’m the wife for him by rolling up me sleeves and…”
“Getting some women to come in and clean? Couldn’t he have come up with that one himself?”
“Not if he’s down to his last bean. I’m going to pay out of me own pocket. Besides, most like he hasn’t wanted to put the noses of them three scary faces out of joint. Never heard of elbow grease, any of them, from the look of the place.”
“Somehow I can’t see Lord Belfrey succumbing to pressure from whomever he marries to sack them. It turns out they were all homeless for a while.” I eyed her now lopsided skirts.
“So you have talked to him?”
“Not since last night.”
Mrs. Malloy heaved an annoyed sigh. “Well, that’s nice! After me telling you as how he wanted a word with you about me being one of the contestants! Sometimes, Mrs. H, I can’t make you out. Anyone would think you was trying to put spokes in the wheels of him marrying me.”
“Don’t take your jitters out on me.” I grabbed at her elbow as she swayed dangerously on those silly high heels. “I’m sure Ben will have given him his blessing, there’s no reason it had to come from my mouth. What you need to do,” a glance at my watch, “is get downstairs and join the remaining contestants, who should be arriving in ten minutes.”
“What do you mean, remaining?” She was always good at picking up nuances.
“Two, besides yourself, are already here.” I steered her toward the door. “Judy Nunn and a rather pretty woman in her early forties named Livonia Mayberry. I want you to be particularly kind to Livonia, Mrs. Malloy.”
“And why’s that?”
“She’s the sort who’ll always need someone on her side.”
“Well, let that be you, Mrs. H!” Outrage shot sparks out the back of her head. “I’ve got to think of meself for a change.”
Talk about a nose out of joint! The door banged behind her and I turned to return Thumper’s speaking look. “Here Comes the Bride could turn ugly,” I told him sadly. “I think you should leave Mucklesfeld before a murder takes place.”