Dorothy Cannell - She Shoots to Conquer

Here was Witch Haven. I expected to find it dark and drear, and so it might prove on the inside, but I was enchanted by the exterior. I could sense the history in which it was steeped… Cromwell’s Roundheads pounding on the door on a rainy winter’s night, the brave resistance from the Royalist household within. Then later, a Jacobite supporter, with a clear crush on Bonnie Prince Charming, hiding out in the priest hole. And on down time to Queen Anne telling the mistress of the house while paying an informal visit that she was pleased with the new style of furniture but feared it wouldn’t last.

My mind thus occupied, I reached the end of the drive, from which flowed a velvet lawn made for idyllic afternoons of croquet and tea under what looked like Longfellow’s “spreading chestnut tree.” Up the short wide brick steps Thumper and I went to the dark oak, iron-studded front door. It did present a daunting appearance. But if it had opened to Cromwell’s men (conveniently forgetting I had created that scene), why shouldn’t it do so for us? Unable to find a bell, I lifted the saucer-sized iron knocker. It fell with a thud that sent half a dozen crows flapping madly from some lofty perch, darkening the air around them.

“Perhaps she isn’t home,” I said, and then the door opened to reveal a tallish woman of uncertain age wearing horn-rimmed glasses and bundled into a thick cardigan above a shapeless tweed skirt. A painfully pale face, faded hair twisted into a high bun, and clumpy lace-up shoes completed the image of a woman who spent her days hurrying back and forth performing a hundred and one uninteresting tasks at the behest of the lady of the house.

In little doubt I was looking at the recently hired secretary-companion Lord Belfrey had mentioned, I gave my name and explained my errand, including the fact that his lordship had suggested I try his cousin for information.

“I’m new to the area and don’t go out much.” Her voice was devoid of regional accent or personality. “My employer has the groceries delivered, does her banking herself, and therefore rarely sends me into the village. I don’t think I’ve seen him before and I think I would remember. To some people all black Labs would look alike, but I’m a dog lover-being allowed to bring my Sealyham with me was one of the reasons I decided to come to Witch Haven, and that boy there does have a particularly lovable face.” Even this was said without inflection.

After a momentary hesitation, during which I expected her to close the door, she beckoned me into a handsomely wainscotted hall with a beautiful Persian carpet picking up the tones of the warmly glowing red-tiled floor and the cobalt blue of the glass lantern overhead. Unlike Mucklesfeld, the ceiling here was low, but its arched timbers along with the graceful curve of the staircase drew the eye upward. I was aware of gilt-framed portraits of bewigged gentlemen and ladies in richly hewn satin gowns, a dark oak dower chest, and a painted black-and-gold chair in the Empire style with a fringed, dark blue velvet shawl tossed upon it to artistic effect. A silk fan with a tassel would have been too much; but I wondered if it had been tried.

“I’m Nora Burton, Celia Belfrey’s assistant.” The woman bent her head to look with a vestige of a smile down at Thumper and I noticed both the creping of her neck and the fine white tracing of a scar above and below the corner of her left eye. Or was that an age line brought into sharper relief than the rest by the overhead light under which she was directly standing? Perhaps sensing my glance, she ceased the flow of words to Thumper… that he looked a nice boy, a good dog, someone had to be waiting anxiously at home… and raised her eyes to mine. The dutiful employee was replaced by a flesh-and-blood woman. “I hate the thought of dogs running loose, ready to get run down by the next passing car, but they do get out despite watching, especially the bigger ones, I imagine. It wouldn’t be fair to think nasty thoughts about the owner.”

“No, I wouldn’t do that.” Callous person that I was, I preferred not to think about the owner at all. “And the search isn’t a chore. Actually, I’m glad to get away from Mucklesfeld for a bit.”

“Is it like a madhouse, with the television show?”

It was nice of her to show a polite interest, though perhaps anything was a break in the daily drudge. I was getting a good feeling from Celia Belfrey’s house, possibly because likable people might have lived in it once upon a time, but I wasn’t predisposed, from what Lord Belfrey had told me, to be equally charmed by the present owner-should I be granted the opportunity to meet her. On the other hand, was it entirely fair to assume that because Nora Burton was dowdy, she was also downtrodden? Or even that his lordship’s view might not be slanted by Celia’s removal of Eleanor’s portrait on the grounds that it belonged to her? I dragged my mind back to what Nora Burton had asked about what was currently going on at Mucklesfeld.

“Things are just getting under way, but I expect the drama will increase rapidly. If it doesn’t, Georges will have a major disappointment tantrum.”

“Lord Belfrey?”

“No, the director.”

“I’m new here,” she reminded me, “and haven’t met his lordship. Forester, the handyman here who was with Miss Belfrey’s father for years, says his lordship rarely visited at Mucklesfeld as a boy or a young man.”

“Miss Burton,” came an irritable, well-carrying voice from a room down the hall with its door, I now noticed, ajar, “who are you talking to out there?”

“Excuse me.” The dutiful employee slipped back into place behind the horn-rimmed glasses. “I’ll explain to Miss Belfrey why you came.” She departed without saying she would return, but I took that to be left hanging in the air; if I were to be evicted, Cousin Celia would not dilly-dally giving the order. Several slow-ticking minutes passed. I thought about the children with yearning. Thumper availed himself of the opportunity to sit down and scratch. A paunchy periwigged gentleman on the wall kept me in his sideways leer whichever way I moved. And if the door had not suddenly reopened, I might have decided that Celia Belfrey had died from an overdose of smelling salts on being told his lordship had sent me to spy on her.

“Miss Belfrey will see you and the dog,” Nora Burton informed me in the neutral tones of the impeccably trained maid-servant seen on old black and white movies-invariably named Mary or Ethel and too dimwitted to reveal to the mustached, laconic inspector from Scotland Yard what she had overheard when giving the drawing-room brass doorknob a good polish. Thus ensuring she would get herself strangled, to be found in the butler’s pantry in an ungainly sprawl of thick stockings, with an adenoidal gape on her face.

“Thank you.” I picked up the tie lead I had dropped on entering the house and drew Thumper to my side.

“If you will kindly follow me into Miss Belfrey’s sitting room.”

Nora stood aside as I entered, but remained in the doorway as I crossed parquet turned golden by the sunlight entering through the latticed windows despite the raindrops spattering the glass. It was a room as lovely as the hall, with the richness of red and cobalt blue accenting perfectly other time-muted shades. The furniture was an unerring mingling of exquisite antiques and some fine contemporary pieces, including two ivory linen sofas on either side of the Adam fireplace. The woman seated on the one with its back to the windows, face turned toward the door, bore a strong resemblance to Lord Belfrey, despite the fact that she could never have been a beauty even when young. The female version of his features and black eyes conveyed a hardness impervious to rose pink silk blouse and matching cashmere cardigan draped around the shoulders. The straight, midlength hair was too black for her middle-aged skin, although I found myself doubting that it was dyed, and the slash of red that comprised her mouth suggested a woman who would stop at nothing to get her own way. She did not shift position on the sofa, let alone rise to her feet. As she watched my approach, those eyes never dipping to take in Thumper, a slow, cruel smile curved that mouth into a scythe.