She Shoots to Conquer (22 page)

“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.”