She Shoots to Conquer (35 page)

“I don’t like the bally, in fact,” Mrs. Malloy added a self-congratulatory chuckle, “I think it’s bally awful.”

Nobody could have missed that one. Before Molly’s face had finished crumbling, and before Alice could get her mouth more
than a third open, Judy said, with an obvious attempt at keeping a grip on her temper, that it was always a matter of each to his or—this case her—own opinion.

“So, what’s your idea of enjoying yourself, Miss Candidate for Sainthood?” Mrs. Malloy’s defiant attempt at a laugh came out as a snort, quite unfitting a future mistress of Mucklesfeld. “Would it be thinking you’ve already won Lord Belfrey’s heart with your looks and charm? A shame you’re not tall enough to look in a mirror once in ten years!”

The ensuing silence was the loudest I had ever heard. A pinched-faced Judy made no reply, but the gleam of tears in her eyes spoke paragraphs. No one else said peep, fearing perhaps, as I did, that to say anything would only make matters worse. If I could have produced a clap of thunder to startle Mrs. Malloy back to sense—demonstrated by a crawling, sniveling apology—I would have done so. As it was, I would have to wait until I got her alone. Or so I thought for the second and a half before a deafening crash of what sounded like vast wooden cymbals blasted us all back in our chairs, followed by an immediate plunge into darkness. A higher power at work? But just how much higher? Even in my shattered, trembling state, I couldn’t help thinking that Georges had been remarkably quiescent during this gathering. Had he just made up for such restraint with a bang?

Judy’s voice pierced the blackness. “That sounded to me like exterior shutters being clapped shut outside. There weren’t any at these windows when I was walking around that side of the house this morning, but it wouldn’t have taken any time even for one person to install them.”

“’Course not.” The meek voice sounded vaguely like Mrs. Malloy’s. Too little too late, I feared, to put her instantly back in anyone’s good books, but at least she wasn’t (as yet) ratcheting up the tension. “It could have been done right before lunch; no one was likely to go outdoors when waiting for the gong to bong, so to speak.”

“There aren’t any shutters at any of the windows.” This sounded like Livonia. “It isn’t the house for them, is it? I mean, it’s not a villa in the South of France or that type of place.”

“I’ll feel my way over to the door and try for a light switch.” That was Alice. As with Judy’s, her voice was instantly recognizable. A scraping back of chairs, followed by some blundering into one another (the dark truly was impenetrable), and then Alice again. “I’ve found it.” Minuscule pause. “Nothing! The power’s off, at least in here.”

“That Georges!” Judy sounded back to her bracing self. “No one can accuse him of not doing things in style. Have you tried the door handle?”

“Won’t turn.”

“Could I try?” Livonia offered. “One thing I got out of my relationship with Harold were a few, supposedly top secret company tricks on how to wiggle a lock. If someone would pass me a knife . . . Oh, thanks, whoever you are! A butter one, that’s perfect!”

Hope flamed . . . flickered . . . ebbed and died.

“Sorry. It has to be bolted on the outside. Harold didn’t have any solutions to that one.”

“Good try, Livonia,” said Judy. Echoes of agreement rose and fell.

“Well,” Mrs. Malloy said (perhaps a little less puffily than usual), “like Wisteria Whitworth exclaimed when the padded cell door closed on her . . .”

“Who?” several voices inquired.

“Another of Doris McCrackle’s heroines,” I supplied. “On that occasion she told herself there was no reason to panic and absolutely no use in screaming because no one would hear her. We’ll be heard, but no one will come because they’ll be under orders not to interfere. Even my husband will feel compelled to stuff his fingers in his ears. Luckily, unlike Wisteria, we aren’t dealing with reality—except in the silly sense of the word. This is a game. Another of Georges’s wacky challenges to see if the five
of you can display steel under pressure. Meaning there has to be a way out of here. You just have to find it.”

“But you’ll help, won’t you, Ellie?” said Livonia steadily. “Perhaps your being here is Georges’s way of giving us a bonus card. You have a professional understanding of houses.”

“If anyone can find a secret exit, it’ll be Mrs. H here.” Even though my anger at Mrs. Malloy for bringing that gleam of tears into Judy’s eyes did not evaporate, I couldn’t help being touched by the pride in her voice. “Couldn’t put in a book all she knows about old places. Wouldn’t brag about it herself, she wouldn’t—modest to a fault, always was and always will be.”

This was laying it on too thick. Aware that attempting to sound self-deprecating would come off as self-satisfied, I kept silent.

“Glad for the silver lining,” said Alice. “Of course it’s too much to hope that Georges has supplied us with a torch.”

“Even if they aren’t remarkably scarce at Mucklesfeld, he wouldn’t make it that easy.”

“And to be fair to him, Ellie,” Judy’s voice came from close beside me, “it’s not to be expected that he would make things easier. A shame I’m not one wearing my hiking jacket; there’s a penlight in one of the pockets.”

A general murmur of resigned disappointment.

Molly spoke up. “I don’t know anything about secret passages and that sort of thing, but it doesn’t seem likely we’d find an opening on the window wall.”

“I don’t know all that much either,” I said in the direction of her voice. “Despite Mrs. Malloy is praise, I’m not an expert on houses the age of Mucklesfeld.” Answering snort. “Most of what I’ve gleaned—rightly or wrongly—comes from reading books of the sort written by Doris McCrackle. And in those fictional accounts the hidden opening is often found, after a great deal of tapping of the wainscoting, on one side or other of the fireplace.”

“There’s a lot of paneling,” said Molly, “but I didn’t notice a fireplace.”

“Well, I don’t suppose you would have done,” came Mrs.
Malloy’s determinedly mellow rejoinder, “but it’s there on the back wall at the top of the table, closed off with a piece of metal sheeting.” Something I, the authority, hadn’t noticed.

Although not good in the dark (Ben might disagree), I managed to fumble my way without excessive bumping into furniture—hard-edged—or the other women—softer-edged—to the wall in question. A sharp yelp preceded Molly’s warning to be cautious of the metal fireplace covering. With considerable overlapping of hands, we proceeded to frisk the wainscoting. To be frank, I wasn’t entirely convinced we would locate a means of escape from the dining room other than the ones bolted against us. But just when I was thinking that past inhabitants of Mucklesfeld must have been a very dull, unimaginative lot, who hadn’t deserved the treat of being scared out of their wits by being forced to hide from the Roundheads or harbor a popish priest, someone bumped into me, causing my knee to jerk forward.

“Is whoever that was all right?” inquired Judy from somewhere to my right.

“Blissful,” I said, staring into an opening the size of a cupboard door, which though shadowy revealed the start of a passageway, suggesting that somewhere ahead was a window or even an exit. “Don’t anyone trample on me as we escape Georges’s clutches!”

Exuberant exclamations, cheers, and laughter exploded as I stepped forward. There was, however, nothing of a stampede in the surge behind me. The light neither brightened nor waned as we made our crocodile march down the narrow, timbered face fifteen or so feet before finding ourselves at the top of a stone stairway.

It was Judy who noticed the candlestick and box of matches. “A clue that we’re meant to go down,” she said, and to my relief Mrs. Malloy did not inform her that this was too obvious to bother mentioning.

“Oh, I do love clues,” said Molly from my immediate rear. “I’m actually enjoying this adventure.”

Judy lit the candle, put the matches in a hip pocket, and we began the downward procession.

“It is rather fun, isn’t it?” I could hear the smile in Livonia’s voice as we continued down, girded on both sides by walls that looked as though they had been around before Hadrian got busy doing his showing off. “Or maybe it’s just the relief of being out of the dining room, which I didn’t much like even before we got locked in.”

“New curtains could make a difference in there and everywhere else.” Alice also sounded chipper.

I thought of Witch Haven’s restful charm that could withstand Celia Belfrey’s personality. Cross as I might be with Mrs. Malloy, I couldn’t bear the thought of her living out her days at Mucklesfeld. Whatever was needed to restore both the structure and the spirit of the house could not be provided by even the most happily married couple, let alone two people brought together out of practicality or ambition. What the place needed was to be crammed as full of life as the hall and drawing room were currently full of furniture.

Having reached the bottom, we found ourselves in an empty cellar small enough to show itself reasonably clearly in the candlelight. No wine racks, filled or empty, no sprouting sacks of potatoes. The only thing to say for it was that it appeared dry—no lichen or mold on the walls. Indeed, the air smelled reasonably fresh. The faces of the other women seemed more clearly defined, more fleshed out than they had done in the dining room before the lights went out. I put that down to a reaction from the plunge into darkness, but then I felt the energy flowing from each of the contestants, with the exception of Mrs. Malloy, who suddenly looked all her sixty-some years.

Alice stood bundling her hair back up. “Georges and his crew have to be filming us through spy holes, otherwise where would be the fun for the viewing audience? May we all agree we’re showing the jokester that any one of us could deal with a crisis as Lady Belfrey?”

“Ellie found the way out of the dining room and she isn’t in the running,” Livonia reminded her.

Take that, Georges! You and your twisted hope of an uncontrollable passion arising between Lord Belfrey and a wedded woman!

“It’s not a bad cellar as such places go, but I’d love to get back out into the gardens.” Judy smiled ruefully. “Should we start prying apart the walls and floor?”

“Please don’t anyone think I’m pushing myself forward,” said Livonia at her most tentative, “but it seems to me that even without the candle we wouldn’t be in pitch dark, so there has to be a faint amount of light creeping in somehow, doesn’t there?”

“What if,” suggested Molly, who looked and sounded breezily confident, “those spy holes Alice mentioned are cracks between the stones in the wall? The ventilation they provide could explain why the cellar is dry.” Taking the candle from Judy, she paced left, then right—eyes shifting from walls to ceiling. “Maybe the cracks—even the widest of them—aren’t easy to see because they’re filmed over with cobwebs of the same gray as the stone. Except, of course, for the one being used to spy on us; that would likely be high up, even in the ceiling.”

“Knowing Georges, he would prefer looking down on us,” I said. “Also, he won’t want to be caught on the spot when we do manage to break out of here.”

“Okay, but even if there are cracks big enough to get our fingers into,” Mrs. Malloy stood a shade wobbly on her high heels and looking as though she’d have dearly liked to sit down and melt into the flagged floor, “how do they help us? Even if we could get a grip, stone’s not what you could call lightweight.” She and I share a gift for pointing out the obvious. “Unless,” she reenergized sufficiently to purse her lips and raise a black painted-on eyebrow, “a section of wall has been replaced with something made up to look just like the rest. You know, Mrs. H, one of them faux finishes you’re always going on about, now
everyone’s wanting the insides of their semidetached to look like a Tuscan villa these days.”

“Work done in this case courtesy of Georges’s minions.” I nodded. “That secret panel in the dining room must have been mentioned to Georges as one of Mucklesfeld’s manifold charms, and he went from there. I remember now his mentioning to me, in his usual conceited way, earlier in the week, before the crew came on board, he ordered some stage work done.”

“What’s the betting we’re closing in on what he was boasting about?” Alice gave a comradely hug to Judy, who said that if she were Georges she would have camouflaged the removable section of wall with a thicker layer of cobwebs.

“Shall we start scouting?” Livonia turned to Molly, at which point we heard the faintest sound of organ music, so thready it was almost like someone humming, which reminded me of the dean’s butler in
The Landcroft Legacy
. I remembered how the evilsounding tune had drifted into Semolina’s ears when she was lost in the moorland fog. The onset of music from an unseen source can be one of the scariest sounds in the world, even . . . I reminded myself, even when knowing, almost a hundred percent, that it was being filtered into the cellar on the instructions of Georges, if he wasn’t rapaciously twiddling knobs himself.

We all looked at each other, before gathering closer together.

“It’s all right,” said Molly without a quaver. “All part of the fun.”

“I’m getting meself worked up to chuckle me head off!” said Mrs. Malloy.

“Perverted sense of fun,” amended Alice rather jerkily. “I’ve . . . never cared much for that tune. It’s so bouncily jolly . . . it’s creepy.”

What tune? The music swelled to fill the cellar, making it impossible for any one of us not to recognize “Here Comes the Bride.” Silly not to have instantly known from the organ. The tempo picked up to skipping speed, then slowed . . . deepened . . . scraped the bottom of a misery a dirge could not have found. I
could picture it—St. Mary’s in the Dell so welcoming when I was there that morning, the veiled bride being dragged, clutching and moaning, toward the now sacrificial altar.

“I told you it’s a horrible tune.” Most of Alice’s voluminous hair had tumbled down and she made no move to pile it back up.

“Any music can be twisted around.” Molly moved up close to her.

“Georges is a pain in the neck,” said Judy in her mild voice, “but seeing he must want us to get out of here sometime today, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gave us a hint, by having the music come in loudest near the removable stone, if there is such a piece.”