Dorothy Cannell - She Shoots to Conquer

“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.”