Dorothy Cannell - She Shoots to Conquer

“Wonderful boy,” I praised while bending to knot Lord Belfrey’s tie, which I had forgotten I was holding around his collar, before setting off down the drive, there being no reason now not to use it to reach the road. We had just passed through the gates when I realized he still had something in his mouth. Inserting fingers and gently prying his teeth apart, I pulled out something flat, irregularly shaped, and about two inches in size. On closer inspection this proved to be a piece of broken-off plastic. “Very nice,” I told a pleased Thumper. “I’ll keep it as a souvenir of you.” I’d do nothing of the sort, of course, but to have tossed it aside would have been hurtful to his feelings, even if my parents hadn’t brought me up to believe that littering was a deadly sin, worse than any of the others, although they could never recall what they were.

Thumper took amicably to the tie as we proceeded down the road bounded on our near side by Mucklesfeld’s wall and by more woods on the other. It was a good-sized road with a crossing a short way down, but very little traffic. We came to a Norman church surrounded by an iron-fenced cemetery. It reminded me of St. Anselm’s, which Ben and I attend fairly frequently (meaning if we don’t oversleep or decide that a leisurely breakfast in bed would be nice). We passed nobody during the five or so minutes it took us to reach the village. Grimkirk looked to be more pleasant than its name. There was the familiar juxtaposing of half-timbered Tudor buildings, with sharply peaked roofs and narrow latticed windows, converted into boutiques and bakeries, and the modern wide-glass-fronted shops, banks, and electrical appliance showrooms. All of which make up the usual English high street. After crossing at the only traffic light in sight, I stopped a middle-aged woman in a head scarf and winter coat. A mistake. She had that blind, bustling stare of the morning shopper who is adding sausages and that nice sharp Cheddar-and mustn’t forget the vinegar-to her shopping list. Understandably startled, she asked me to repeat my question.

“You don’t happen to recognize this dog?”

“What dog?”

“This one,” pointing down.

“No.” Remembering the pork pie to have on hand in the fridge, in case the son and his wife showed up unannounced like they often did at teatime. “Why?”

“He’s a stray and I’m trying to return him.”

A smile appeared. “Well, isn’t that kind of you! Wish I could help you, dearie. Always been fond of animals, I have, but can’t have a dog or a cat because our Ted’s allergic. Why don’t you ask at the sweetshop, two doors along? One of the girls that work there might know something to help you.”

I took her advice, and feeling I couldn’t leave Thumper outside, took him in with me. The woman behind the counter, with the rows of large, enticingly filled glass jars on the shelves behind her, hadn’t been a girl in a very long time. But her ornately piled and puffed white hair, stuck through here and there with sparkly topped pins, the heavy makeup, and the exceedingly tight black top made clear that she was still vigorously fighting the battle against Time.

Had there been other customers, she might not have immediately noticed Thumper, sitting like an obedience champion.

“No dogs in here.” She had a rasping voice that suggested she stirred gravel into her morning black coffee for the benefits.

Again I explained the situation without success. She didn’t remember seeing the dog before. Nor had she been asked to post a Missing notice by the owners of a black Lab. She suggested I inquire at the estate agents on the opposite corner, who never seemed all that busy these days. I thanked her but decided against trooping from shop to shop and bothering passersby. I would take Lord Belfrey’s advice and call at Witch Haven. Hadn’t I been hoping it would come to that… the chance to meet Giles Belfrey’s daughter, Celia? And if that didn’t work out successfully, I might reap results when delivering Mrs. Malloy’s note to Mrs. Spuds. Working for Tommy must have given her some insights into the lives of those who had inhabited Mucklesfeld.

When I asked directions to Witch Haven, the pained expression altered, but not more pleasantly so. Interest both sly and avid flickered in the narrow strips of eyes between the gummy black mascara.

“Miss Belfrey likes her privacy, so if it’s just about the dog, you’d better be ready to have the door shut in your face. If it’s something more personal…” She let the words drift.

“Lord Belfrey suggested I go there.”

“Did he then? And how do you come to know his lordship?” Usually I don’t mind curiosity, especially when it’s my own, but hers was accompanied by a barely suppressed sneer tinged with glee, as if she were hoarding some delicious secret.

“I’m staying at Mucklesfeld.”

“One of the contestants?” She pulled a tissue out of its box and wiped it across the top of the cash register, while the real activity remained in those eyes.

“My husband and I got stranded in the fog. If you could kindly tell me how to get to Witch Haven?”

Scrunching the tissue, she tossed it into a plastic bin behind the counter. “Arrive before or after the accident?”

“After.”

“How’s his lordship taking it, then?”

“My husband and I just met him.”

“What sort of lot are they-the contestants, the ones that made it into Mucklesfeld alive?” She shrugged. “Can’t blame us locals for being interested, especially me, seeing as… but that’s for me to know and others to find out.” There it flashed again-the look of being the holder of a gleeful secret. The door jangled, and a woman came in with a couple of small children who instantly dropped down to fuss over Thumper. The mother said: “Mustn’t touch strange doggies.” I assured her that this one was friendly, made the necessary inquiry, got the negative result; then asked her, turning my back on the woman behind the counter and all those wonderfully filled jars of old-fashioned sweets-humbugs, gob-stoppers, aniseed balls-if she could direct me to Witch Haven.

Back out on the pavement, I told Thumper that there was always a bright side. “Had the guillotine not intervened, Marie Antoinette could have ended up looking like that Terror in there. And then who’d give a hoot whether or not she had said, Let them eat cake .” This naturally reminded me that I hadn’t eaten breakfast, leading me into the bakery, where I purchased a Chelsea bun and a Bakewell tart with no objection to Thumper from the assistant.

Paper bag in hand, I continued down the high street, munching as I went. As instructed by the mum in the sweetshop, I turned at the jewelers, proceeded down a narrow road lined with narrow gray brick houses opening directly onto the pavement, their elderly appearance cheered in some cases by glowing white steps, geranium pots in the windows, and wicker trellises around the doors. Few people were about, and none showed any undue interest in Thumper. Halfway down, I crossed over to turn left at the next corner into a tree-shaded lane that looked as though it had never seen a car, let alone a bus.

Set back in a charming garden with a weeping willow leaning toward a brook was a whitewashed, green-roofed, comfortably sized cottage-style house. It had a welcoming look that made me wish it was Witch Haven, but the instructions had been to continue on until the lane broadened into an avenue. There were only two other houses in the lane, both thatched cottages and picture-postcard charming, but I did not linger to admire. The green shade provided by the canopied branches of two rows of trees drew me in and dappled Thumper’s black fur with shadow as he trotted contentedly along beside me, the tie hanging loose in my hand. What a pleasant way to spend a morning. A woman and her dog taking a walk, neither thinking particularly deep thoughts, just enjoying the moment-peaceful in silent companionship. Far too abruptly, we came to the narrow, meandering drive leading up to the faded redbrick house with its ivy and latticed windows.