She Shoots to Conquer (36 page)

“’Course the trouble is,” I could hear the effort Mrs. Malloy made not to sound irritably contradictory, “this isn’t no great big space. So the music’s bloomin’ loud everywhere.”

At that moment the music gentled down to the point of sleepiness . . . or death. There followed a rush over to various walls, a pressing of ears to stone, a narrowed riveting of the eyes. Within moments, Livonia, the formerly timid and repressed, let out a whoop of joy.

“I’ve found it—the section of wall that shifts! The tune was piping directly into my ear. Oh, these cobwebs on my hands! But it doesn’t matter . . . the gap’s big enough for me to get a good grip. Some of you come and help me. I don’t want to be knocked backward, even if it is only Styrofoam coming down on me.”

I wasn’t among the first to rush forward. To be honest, I was glued to the floor, stunned that what had been posed as a farfetched theory appeared to be on the money. Mrs. Malloy wasn’t speedy, either. In her case the problem seemed be aching feet, although I pretended not to notice because even though she had behaved so badly to Judy at lunch, she was my pal and, as she often says, if you don’t have your pride and an egg in the fridge, what do you have?

As she and I discovered on making up the rear, the fake portion of wall came out in easily controllable portions, leaving us facing a door-sized opening, beyond which according to Alice—the first to
go through—was a passageway. Ubiquitous at Mucklesfeld. This turned out to be similar in size and length to the one leading from the dining room’s secret exit, though less shadowy, due to a good-sized window above a door to our right. Of recording devices or human activity there was no sign, suggesting that immediately before the wall came down there had been rapid flight. But there was no budging the door when Judy tried the handle.

“It has to open to the outdoors,” I said, “or there would be no sense to the passage, just as there has to be a way up to our left. Did anyone notice when the music stopped? Or were we all too focused on the wall?”

With hardly another word said, we headed in hope of the staircase which, unless it had been blocked up for the pure enjoyment of doing so by Belfreys past or Georges present, had to be there. It was, and even Mrs. Malloy was renewed sufficiently that she ceased to hobble. Indeed, as we mounted the steps—wooden ones this time, which somehow seemed encouraging—her high heels tapped out a beat that I suddenly realized made an accompaniment to a renewal of organ music. That same oh so merrily macabre tune I would never again hear without thinking of death and decay, which was what we came upon as we headed around a turn of the stairs. In the corner of the dusk-filled landing, in a sitting sprawl, was a hideously grinning skeleton, gowned as for a debutante’s ball in diaphanous chiffon.

“Well,” exclaimed Mrs. Malloy over the now insanely pounding “Here Comes the Bride,” “don’t anyone tell me that isn’t Eleanor Belfrey—murdered by the husband just like I said. Wonder what closet Georges found her in?”

13

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?”