She Shoots to Conquer (24 page)

Mr. Plunket displayed a clairvoyance of his own by finishing
my sentence: “. . . he was in the kitchen less than five minutes ago serving Monsieur LeBois his lunch. Tadpoles in some savory sauce, I think it was. Perhaps, if you won’t mind me saying so,” he stared through me, “it’s the house.”

“What is?” I was struggling to think what Ben could possibly have cooked. It would serve Georges right if it really was something scooped out of an algae-covered pond with a net. Let him stick that in his bouche. Sometimes nastiness is good for the soul, especially when one’s heart is aching for a black Lab.

“Sending you messages about Whitey. And who knows what else.” Suddenly, a shadow overlaid the enthusiasm, succeeded by a look of dread.

“Oh, I wouldn’t think there’ll be anything more! One premonition a day . . . a week . . . a month is the most I, a rank amateur, can produce.” I hated to leave him standing there, but my powers were sufficient for me to realize he wanted me gone, preferably from the face of the earth. So I headed for the kitchen.

Did he fear that those supposed powers would produce a meeting between myself and a visitor from beyond the grave? One who would impart information amidst much moaning and shimmering of vapors that Giles Belfrey had murdered his young wife, and then lead me to where Eleanor’s remains had been concealed all these years. His concern of course would be for Lord Belfrey. Perhaps he was unaware that these days it is not considered politically correct to judge people by their relatives. And a good thing, too, considering most of us have ones that would make the devil blush. But his lordship was a stranger to each of his prospective brides, and perhaps only a woman madly in love could be expected not to wonder if there might be a family tendency to do away with wives who forgot to say please when asking to have the butter passed.

I had not expected to be thrilled at the sight of Georges LeBois. But seeing him pulled up in his wheelchair to the kitchen table countered the ache I was feeling. He had a giant-sized serviette (possibly a tea towel) tucked into the neck of his waistcoat,
while he chomped down on what I hoped were not tadpoles—however wondrous the savory sauce.

“So you’re back,” not bothering to look up. “Find the owners of that dog you had stitched to your leg?”

“I did. What are you devouring?”

“Baby frog legs in a Champagne reduction. Care to join me in a spoonful?” He flourished a paw, indicating any of the available chairs.

“I’d rather die in the clutches of the Metal Knight.” Seating myself across from him, I watched him close his eyes in ecstasy. “Apparently you are satisfied with my husband’s services as temporary personal chef.”

“
Ma chèr enfante
, I would marry him had you not beaten me to punch.” He raised his lids to survey me sorrowfully. “And do you, naive creature that you appear to be, appreciate his gift to the world? Do you worship at his sautéing pan? Do you so much as know the difference between a flan and a crème caramel?”

I ignored this. “Where is my husband? I hope you haven’t got him locked up in a cellar until he promises never to leave you.”

“Gone to search his lordship’s desk. He needs to check some malfunction inside the cooker and I remembered seeing a red torch in one of the drawers. As a boy I longed for a pair of bicycle clips, a paper punch, and a red torch. Those ambitions, simple as they may sound, shaped my life—drove me to succeed. I do hope our mutual friend won’t be long.” Georges set aside his empty plate with one last, lingering look. “I am aquiver with anticipation to know what he has planned for dessert. A white chocolate mousse Grand Marnier would do very well, although my hopes are set on an old-fashioned bread and butter pudding, with lots of raisins and a thick hot custard on top.”

Either would have suited me down to the ground, but I hardened my heart against any prospect of emotional bonding with the awful man. “What of the peasants?” I asked.

He removed the napkin from his neck and dabbed his lips. “Who?”

“The contestants. Do they get to scuffle around the scraps from your table or have they been assigned kitchen time to prepare their own meals?”

“Your husband has a fault—an affinity for the common man, or in this case woman. He discussed the matter with his lordship and it has been agreed that for today at least he will also prepare their meals. All six will shortly gather in the dining room for a simple—though assuredly delectable—luncheon of soup, salad, and I believe blackberry and apple pie.”

Feeling starved to death, I reached for the bread plate and lavished a slice with butter. “How did this morning’s filming go?”

“Reasonably well. Lord Belfrey did all that was required, looking handsome and making a graceful welcoming speech. Among the women, Judy Nunn responds the most naturally to the camera. Livonia Mayberry isn’t as stiffly timid as I thought she’d be and of course your friend Mrs. Malloy is the consummate scene-hogger.”

“Good for her,” I responded stoutly. “Who else?”

Georges gusted a sigh. “There is a Mrs. Wanda Smiley, who unfortunately smiles too much and is altogether full of herself; an Alice Jones equally enchanted with her post-hippie self; and a Molly Duggan who doesn’t have a self. I have yet to pull the takes up on-screen in the inner room off his lordship’s study. You’re about to say you didn’t notice any such door when you went in against written instructions. Oh, fear not! No one informed against you. I know a born snooper when I see one.” He smiled smugly and I started to munch. “There’s a sliding panel behind the desk. Mucklesfeld boasts several such cunning devices.”

“Oh, Monsieur LeBois,” I pressed a hand to my throat, “pray do not fail to make use of them!”

The bird eyes twinkled nastily above the Roman nose. “Trust me to do my worst, dear lady. Do come to the inner sanctum, only when I am there, of course, and take a look at what we have before the editing.”

“That’s a lovely invitation, but I’ve been thinking I may go
home and return for Ben . . . and possibly Mrs. Malloy . . . at the end of
Here Comes the Bride
. After all, there is nothing for me to do here.” Before I could make a fool of myself by explaining that it would surely be easier to recover from the loss of Thumper away from Mucklesfeld, Georges pounced as if I were a baby frog leg materializing on the empty plate.

“Leave? My dear, you must do nothing of the sort. I’m sure your husband depends on you to fire his culinary genius, and if such obligations do not move you, I require your presence.”

“Why?”

“To keep your friend Mrs. Malloy from disrupting the cordial relationship that seems presently to exist between the other five contestants. That woman is a cat amongst the pigeons if ever I saw one. It is clear she has taken a dislike to Judy Nunn and Livonia Mayberry and is itching to set the feathers of the other three flying.”

I reached for a second slice of bread. “She’s bound to feel a bit of an outsider, not being a link in your human chain.”

Georges smirked. “The possibility of sparks ignited from an interconnection between the contestants has irresistible appeal. I flatter myself I have set matters up very nicely, but ideas spring eternal. And my most recent one involves you.”

“Me?”

“No need to gape. You’re a nice-looking young woman, but even a beauty with a capital B does not come off well with goggle eyes and a dropped chin. All I require of you is your presence at some of the sessions in which the contestants get together outside the presence of Lord Belfrey. I realized this morning when recording their stilted gibbering that an outsider was needed to nudge the conversation along and keep it from straying too far off course. I only have so much patience when it comes to weeding out the fluff.”

“And how explain my role?”

“You are an interior designer, intent on exploring each of the contestants’ plans to reinvigorate Mucklesfeld. Come, come, Mrs.
Haskell, perceive the possibilities of extending your client base. You, along with your husband, will be listed amongst the credits.” Georges eyed me narrowly. “Tell me, do you still want to leave?”

I told him I’d have to think about it, but I knew I’d cave. Leaving Mucklesfeld without watching
Here Comes the Bride
unfold would be the equivalent of abandoning the drawing room at Merlin’s Court to its own devices in the middle of spring cleaning.

“Your first assignment will be afternoon tea at three today in the library.” He pressed on as I remained silent. “Your husband has promised a fine spread.”

Unfair! my heart cried out. I was ever a slave to cucumber sandwiches with the crusts removed, munchable scones, wafer-thin biscuits, and delectable little cakes, to say nothing of several fragrant cups of Earl Grey.

“Oh, all right, you win,” I was saying when Ben walked in to inform Georges that he hadn’t found the torch, while giving me a look that seemed just a little frosty.

9

I 
lay on my narrow bed in the room that had once been part of the servants’ quarters, feeling tragically akin to a Victorian parlormaid who had allowed herself to dream of finding favor with the master, only to have him turn curt and dismissive.

“I understand you were anxious to locate the dog’s owners,” Ben had said, when we left the kitchen for the hall, “but couldn’t you have spared a moment to let me know you were taking off and how long you were likely to be gone? I didn’t much appreciate learning from Lord Belfrey that he knew more about your plans than I did.” Before I could tell him he was being petty, he made an unarguable point. “How could I not worry after your being so under the weather last night?”

I apologized but reminded him I had told him before saying anything to Lord Belfrey that I intended to try to find Thumper’s owners.

“So you did, but I assumed you’d wait at least until you’d had breakfast. Rushing off without so much as a slice of toast was
asking for trouble, although,” Ben’s mouth tightened and his brows came down in a bar over eyes that flashed all green—no blue—“his lordship seemed to find your rescuing spirit absolutely enchanting.”

The flat pillow did nothing to soften the memory of those words, let alone to cushion my head, but I closed my eyes against the strands of sunshine entering through the high window. If my headache returned, whose fault would that be? Not Lord Belfrey’s. I had sometimes wondered how I would feel if Ben were ever jealous. There had never been any reason . . . and there wasn’t now. I thought Lord Belfrey remarkably handsome; I might even go so far as to say rivetingly attractive; but that didn’t mean I longed to be swept into his arms and kissed with the passion of Mr. Rochester for Jane Eyre. Really, I felt resentment stir; Ben might have put more focus on my sadness at parting from Thumper. When I had mentioned my reservations about his return to the Dawkinses, Ben had said absolutely the wrong thing. Because it was the truth.

“It says quite a lot about the couple that they are keeping their promise to her father when they aren’t dog people. Something you can understand, Ellie. You’ve never wanted one.”

“Only because bringing another animal into the house would upset Tobias.”

“And that’s more important than the children wanting a dog?”

There had seemed no point in saying I’d promised them one when . . . the right time came. And I now reminded myself that Ben was understandably irritable, with the cooker not working properly, along with having to contend with diva Georges’s gourmand requirements and produce a luncheon for the contestants, presumably a solitary meal for Lord Belfrey, and yet another feed for the film crew. No problem at all at Abigail’s or even Merlin’s Court, but the kitchen at Mucklesfeld was lacking in what would have been considered rudimentary equipment two centuries back.

We had parted with Ben urging me to get some rest and promising to send something up to me on a tray.

“Just a sandwich and a cup of tea or coffee,” I’d said, knowing he’d provide much better. But not baby frog legs; he’d never do that to me, even had he caught me in a state of déshabille in Lord Belfrey’s bedroom.

The door creaked, and I opened my eyes hoping to see Ben abject with remorse at having been testy with me. But it was Mrs. Malloy who tottered in on her high heels to the accompaniment of a dark taffeta rustle, rouge heightened by exertion, a filled tray clasped in her ringed hands, and the sparkle of her iridescent eye shadow not showing up anywhere else on her face.

It was clear she was in a mood even before she set the tray down with a thump on the foot of the bed. The effect of the crisp salad, eggs mayonnaise, open-faced prawn sandwich, and lemon tartlet was offset by the tea slopped in the saucer and her folded arms.

“Thank you.” I sat up cautiously. If my voice sounded flat, it was nothing to the compression of my lower legs. “It’s quite a climb from the kitchen. I’d think suggesting installing a lift could gain contestant points. How are things going?”

“Nice of you to show some interest, Mrs. H, after bunking off all morning.” She stared coldly down at me. “Where did you go, Hong Kong?”

“That was the plan, but when I arrived at the airport, I realized I didn’t have my passport. And perhaps it was as well, seeing I never did take that seminar on which chopstick goes with what course of the meal.” My hope that an attempt at levity would put a smile on Mrs. Malloy’s purple-glossed mouth was doomed. If anything, she looked crosser than ever. Oh bother, I thought, knowing I was about to hear what she thought of the other contestants. “So?” I prompted.