Dorothy Cannell - She Shoots to Conquer

“Look your fill,” her voice was low and throaty.

“I’m sorry…?”

“At the portrait of my stepmother above the mantel.” She raised a silk-sleeved arm, which fell back to reveal a ringless hand. “It’s why he sent you, isn’t it?”

I f you’ll forgive my saying so,” Celia Belfrey continued with obvious indifference to whether I did or not, “but you’re a pale copy of her. My father’s second wife, previously Eleanor Lambert-Onger, was undoubtedly a beauty.”

“Yes, she was.” I rounded the piecrust coffee table for a closer look and admitted to myself the truth of what she had said. I could see the resemblance to myself in the upswept light brown hair… the shape of the eyes and the mouth; but even had I been painted wearing that softly drifting dream of a dress evocative of the turn of the twentieth century when creamy lace and organza made women look as though they belonged always in rose gardens, I didn’t have that look… nor could I ever achieve it… of infinite femininity coupled with an elusive loveliness. “Lord Belfrey did mention the portrait,” I said.

“And did he tell you I marched into Mucklesfeld and snatched it away from under his furious nose?” Enjoyment seethed through that husky voice. I was a stranger intruding into her home, making me the ideal object onto which to spew her venom. It would be like talking aloud to herself, only better. The thought curled up in my mind that Celia Belfrey’s reclusiveness might not be entirely self-imposed. Had she over time lost the goodwill of the locals? Had old friendships dwindled away to the obligatory Christmas card; leaving only kindly Tommy Rowley willing to spend time with her? When I didn’t answer, the black eyes flashed slyly. “Of course he told you. Being a fool, Aubrey would be incredibly taken with the resemblance, such as it is, and would grasp at any opportunity to talk to you about her. The fact that Eleanor made off with not only the family jewels but Father’s dog, too, wouldn’t cut any ice with him. The only time he came to Mucklesfeld during the less than a year of the marriage, it was laughably apparent that after getting one look at her going up the stairs he was lost. It was also clear that he saw something sinister in her not coming down to join us for tea or dinner-but I was glad not to have to see Father watching her as though he wouldn’t be able to get enough if he kept her in bed all day. He’d bought her by agreeing to pay off her father’s gambling debts, but having her wasn’t enough for him-he wanted her love, would have done anything including groveling on the ground to get it.”

Celia Belfrey’s bile would have been ugly anywhere, but in that lovely room with the onset silvery rain on the windows and Thumper looking gently perplexed it was a violation. When I still remained silent, she turned her head sharply toward Nora Burton still standing in the doorway-looking taller within that framing than I had thought in the hall. It was the bulky cardigan and shapeless skirt that shortened her up close.

“Why are you hovering like that?”

“I wondered, Miss Belfrey,” Nora Burton replied evenly, “if you might wish me to bring in a pot of tea. You usually ask for one around this time.”

“And you thought our visitor might like one?” The black eyes shifted back to me, intent on discomfiting, although I suspected she wanted me to stay.

“No, thank you. If you can tell me whether you know this dog, I’ll be on my way.”

Celia Belfrey flicked dismissing fingers in the direction of the doorway. When the door closed, the eyes went to Thumper. “I’m not sure. I don’t like dogs; that Scottie of Father’s once nipped me quite badly. His cousin Tommy Rowley had to come round and give me some stitches, but my reasonable demand that the creature be put down was ignored, although Father sometimes said he could throttle the wretch when it wouldn’t come when called or chewed on his shoes.”

“Then I’ll…”

“Not so fast,” raising an imperious hand. “I’ve said I’m not sure if I’ve seen this dog before. Sit down,” it was an order, “while I think. I abhor being rushed.”

Reluctantly, I seated myself on the sofa facing the one she occupied. “Forester, the old man who works for me, mentioned that the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Spendlow-word has it that she’s an atheist-recently got a dog from Animal Rescue. That’s them , isn’t it, out to save the planet and every life-form on it? One would have thought a man of the cloth could have found a member of some other fringe group to marry. But I do believe that dog was a poodle mix.”

“Then not Thumper here.” I started to rise, to be waved back into place.

“I also remember hearing that Mr. Manning from Grange Cottage had a dog, and in his case I believe it was a black Lab.” She had me hooked and knew it. “He died a couple of months ago. Crossed the road in front of a car and got hit.”

“Oh, the poor dear!” I fought down the urge to cover Thumper’s ears. Grimkirk being a small place, the deceased might have been a relative of his.

“Hardly cut down in his prime.”

“Even so…”

“Well into his eighties.”

“Oh!”

Celia Belfrey read my look and grimaced a smile. “You thought I meant the dog. What are you-a member of your own wacky bleeding hearts group? This excessive interest in a stray!” Her insolence froze me in place, as it must have done so many others that she no longer anticipated outrage and was left fully basking in her successes as a verbal slasher. As a girl she had perhaps heard herself described too often as spirited: You should hear her-the things Celia Belfrey says, really too marvelously funny and clever! People just fall apart when she lets them have it . “Speaking of Mr. Manning’s fatal accident brings me back to Mrs. Spendlow and the spectacle Aubrey Belfrey has chosen to make of himself with this dreadful reality show. I’m referring, of course, to last night’s car crash.”

“What does Mrs. Spendlow have to do with that?”

“According to Tommy Rowley, who came rushing round to bring the news early this morning, the woman killed was named Suzanne Varning-”

“Varney.”

Celia Belfrey shrugged. “What does it matter, she won’t be using any name from now on. My point about Mrs. Spendlow is that yesterday afternoon, Nora mentioned that a woman had come to the door saying she had managed to get herself lost and asking for directions to the vicarage. She claimed to have made arrangements to spend a few hours with Mrs. Spendlow, an old friend whom she hadn’t seen in years. I told Nora I hoped she’d had sufficient sense to ask the woman’s name… she could have shown up hoping to get into Witch Haven and have a look around. As you can see, everything I have is valuable and women living alone can be easy prey. Yes, I have Forester, but he’s getting doddery. Years ago he would have grabbed that and provided some protection.” She indicated a longbow that I had not previously noticed-perhaps because it melded with the ambience of the room surprisingly well-hanging above a low bookcase.

“The woman was Suzanne Varney?” I experienced a pang of guilt for having wondered if her real reason for coming a day ahead of the other contestants had been to get a head start on the competition.

“So she told Nora, although one might suppose someone going on a television show in hopes of winning a husband might be inclined to use an assumed name. But tell me, how has my cousin Aubrey responded to this spanner thrown in the works?”

Clearly everything else had been a prelude to this question. Those dark eyes and red lips were eager to absorb any description I could provide of Lord Belfrey dropping his handsome face into his hands when the realization sunk in that his scheme for saving Mucklesfeld might be doomed by the loss of a contestant. Tommy Rowley must not have provided enough succulent details, either out of loyalty to his lordship or because he was a man and typically incapable of bringing the scene to life: Nasty shock for the old boy. Understandably upset. Cup of tea the best medicine under the circumstances. Any chance of my getting one now, Celia ?