Dorothy Cannell - She Shoots to Conquer

“I’m a stranger,” I said tightly, “and as such, not in his confidence. Do you know what became of Mr. Manning’s dog?”

“I imagine it was put down. Who wants somebody else’s pet, except of course for my stepmother when taking Father’s Scottie for spite.” A thin-smiled pause. “How is Aubrey’s so-called household staff reacting to the excitement? Did you know he found those three zombies squatting at Mucklesfeld when he moved in?”

“They are clearly devoted to him.”

“Don’t be pettish.” She sat further back on her sofa, settling in for the beans I would inevitably spill. “It’s a wonder one of them hasn’t murdered him in his bed for his wristwatch. As if one couldn’t tell just from looking at them, the word is they all have unsavory pasts. But enough of Wart Face and the other duo. Is the ludicrously named Here Comes the Bride to continue with one fewer contestant, or is some other desperate woman to be roped in as a replacement?”

“I can’t say.”

The black eyes narrowed. “Are they all every bit as vulgar as might be anticipated?”

“I’m not up on vulgarity. As my parents used to say-better to leave that to the experts.” Getting to my feet, I felt I had finally scored a point, but Celia Belfrey was focused solely on the long-bow, which would I felt sure have come from Mucklesfeld, along with every piece of furniture worth grabbing with her greedy hands.

“Why don’t you suggest to my cousin Aubrey,” she said with husky relish, “that if he wants to instill some excitement into what promises to be a very dull television show, he should have the contestants engage in an archery contest. In my father and grandfather’s time-perhaps even further back than that-one was held every year in commemoration of the legend that William Rufus went boar-hunting in the area with one of our Norman ancestors. If it would be helpful,” she smoothed a hand down the knee of her skirt, before returning her eyes to mine, “I could send Forester to provide instructions. He taught me archery as a girl. And what an opportunity for these women to learn something new!”

Oh, my goodness! I thought. The vile woman is hoping one of the contestants will get shot. That there might even be a second death! She hates Lord Belfrey because he has Mucklesfeld-which even in its ruined state represents her place as daughter of the manor.

Suddenly, the loveliness of the room ebbed into dusk. The reasonable explanation was that the sun had moved behind the clouds, but I blamed the fading colors and the emergence of a dank odor on the evil flowing out of Celia Belfrey. I got out of the room with the speed of an arrow shot from that longbow, pulling Thumper along with me. Nora Burton stood at the foot of the stairs. I had the presence of mind to remember the note from Mrs. Malloy to Mrs. Spuds, and ask how to get to Tommy Rowley’s house, before making a dash out the front door and down the steps.

It was still raining in halfhearted fashion, but Thumper did not seem bothered and the walk would be a short one. From Nora Burton’s description, which even mentioned the weeping willow in the garden, it had to be the cottage-style house we had passed on our way to Witch Haven. I didn’t want to think about Celia Belfrey until time veiled the memory of those eyes and that voice, and I could persuade myself that I had overreacted. Instead, I concentrated on wondering about the woman behind the horn-rimmed glasses. How could she bear to stay at Witch Haven? My mind nudged toward something she had said-obviously nothing striking or I would have remembered-something that niggled afterward around the edges of my mind. Something to do with Georges LeBois and Lord Belfrey… I almost had it. Then it was gone.

The overspreading boughs of the avenue shed green droplets that turned iridescent on the ground, shadows brindled Thumper’s black fur, and again I determinedly shifted my thoughts to wondering about Suzanne Varney’s friendship with the vicar’s wife. Had the authorities sought information from Mrs. Spendlow? Livonia had said she knew Suzanne only as an acquaintance, but Judy Nunn might know about family members and others she had left behind. Perhaps as sad was the thought of no one sufficiently close to mourn her passing. It was the rain-making me think of tears. I forced myself to step out more briskly as I left the trees for the narrower lane, which soon brought Tommy’s house into view, along with another thought about Suzanne’s visit to Mrs. Spendlow.

Had she wanted to confide in an old friend-and one likely to know his lordship-that contrary to the rules for Here Comes the Bride , she had a prior acquaintance with him? Or was it more likely, as I hoped, that she had not connected the name Belfrey with a man met years before… at least not until she had seen a photo accompanying a newspaper story about the proposed reality show? If indeed Georges LeBois would have agreed to such a photo, rather than leaving the physical appearance of the bridegroom up to conjecture. A more important question was why was I becoming fixated with Suzanne Varney’s personality when her motives and decisions were immaterial, given that she had been doomed never to enter Mucklesfeld as a contestant?

Thumper looked hopefully toward the brook splashing over its stones to a tune it was making up as it went along. Its banks were low and of rock-studded grass sprinkled with wildflowers. The garden with its spacious lawns and broad flowerbeds was having its final fling before moving into October and the approach of autumn. Then it would wear copper and bronze and smell of woodsmoke and cidery windfall apples.

“Sorry.” I led Thumper past the brook and up the drive that was of similar length to the one at Witch Haven. He looked up at me, his eyes instantly sympathetic. Trust him to know that I was downhearted. Why, I didn’t know. I wasn’t worried that Mrs. Spuds would turn out to be another nasty female avid for bad news from Mucklesfeld. Indeed, I pictured her as a kindly, motherly woman who took pleasure in doing for nice Dr. Rowley, who like most general practitioners worked too hard, skipped more meals than he should, and was lucky to get two full nights’ sleep in a row. Didn’t she always tell him it was a privilege to worry over him until the right woman came along to take on that nice responsibility?

Her image was so clear in my mind that I started when the green front door opened and there she stood, exactly to order-the snowy white hair, cozy figure, and best of all the kind face. Even so, her first words plunged a stake through my heart. “My word! Who have you got there but old Mr. Manning’s Archie!”

“Archie?”

“Mr. Manning named him after the Archbishop of Canterbury.” Mrs. Spuds beckoned us inside. “He said that even as a puppy there was something uplifting in those dear brown eyes.”

“There is.” I could not look into them. Did he sense that the moment of parting was closing in? “I’m Ellie Haskell. My husband and I are staying at Mucklesfeld for the coming week.”

“Bless you, love, I know who you are from Dr. Rowley’s description. What a shame you were taken poorly like that! Feeling a lot better this morning, I hope? How did you come upon Archie?”

“He came in through my bedroom window.”

Mrs. Spuds didn’t seem to find anything particularly strange in this. Perhaps she thought I had been sleeping on the ground floor. “You’ve taken to him, I can see that. What needs explaining is that Mr. Manning died some months back and his daughter took Archie to live with her and the hubby like she promised her dad.”

“I heard about Mr. Manning from Celia Belfrey when I went to Witch Haven at his lordship’s suggestion, but she thought that”-my voice caught-“the dog had been put down.”