Dorothy Cannell - She Shoots to Conquer

There had seemed no point in saying I’d promised them one when… the right time came. And I now reminded myself that Ben was understandably irritable, with the cooker not working properly, along with having to contend with diva Georges’s gourmand requirements and produce a luncheon for the contestants, presumably a solitary meal for Lord Belfrey, and yet another feed for the film crew. No problem at all at Abigail’s or even Merlin’s Court, but the kitchen at Mucklesfeld was lacking in what would have been considered rudimentary equipment two centuries back.

We had parted with Ben urging me to get some rest and promising to send something up to me on a tray.

“Just a sandwich and a cup of tea or coffee,” I’d said, knowing he’d provide much better. But not baby frog legs; he’d never do that to me, even had he caught me in a state of déshabille in Lord Belfrey’s bedroom.

The door creaked, and I opened my eyes hoping to see Ben abject with remorse at having been testy with me. But it was Mrs. Malloy who tottered in on her high heels to the accompaniment of a dark taffeta rustle, rouge heightened by exertion, a filled tray clasped in her ringed hands, and the sparkle of her iridescent eye shadow not showing up anywhere else on her face.

It was clear she was in a mood even before she set the tray down with a thump on the foot of the bed. The effect of the crisp salad, eggs mayonnaise, open-faced prawn sandwich, and lemon tartlet was offset by the tea slopped in the saucer and her folded arms.

“Thank you.” I sat up cautiously. If my voice sounded flat, it was nothing to the compression of my lower legs. “It’s quite a climb from the kitchen. I’d think suggesting installing a lift could gain contestant points. How are things going?”

“Nice of you to show some interest, Mrs. H, after bunking off all morning.” She stared coldly down at me. “Where did you go, Hong Kong?”

“That was the plan, but when I arrived at the airport, I realized I didn’t have my passport. And perhaps it was as well, seeing I never did take that seminar on which chopstick goes with what course of the meal.” My hope that an attempt at levity would put a smile on Mrs. Malloy’s purple-glossed mouth was doomed. If anything, she looked crosser than ever. Oh bother, I thought, knowing I was about to hear what she thought of the other contestants. “So?” I prompted.

“I can see I’m not going to get a fair shake with the others.” She heaved a martyred sigh. “A pushy lot, all of them, especially that Judy Nunn you were so fired up about after spending five minutes with her. Why you couldn’t have put the little snippet in your pocket and walked off with her when you disappeared, I don’t know.”

Now it wasn’t only my lower extremities that felt weighted down. “She didn’t strike me as pushy,” I protested mildly.

“Well, you didn’t see her in action when Lord Belfrey had us all together for the welcoming ceremony. She grabbed his attention right off the bat by talking about how she’d just love to get busy with a trowel and cement fixing that opening in the wall out front. Crafty creature, using how upset he was about the accident as a way of making her play for him!” A fierce tightening of Mrs. Malloy’s folded arms pushed her bosom up under her chin. I held my breath waiting for a loud pop, but I doubted that even the air going out of those balloons would have deflated her wrath.

“How did his lordship bring up the accident?”

“He waited till we got into that room we was in last night.”

“It would have the right ambience.” I leaned forward, lifted the tray, and gingerly set it on the floor as far to the left of Mrs. M’s feet as possible, although maybe a good stomp on crockery would make her feel better. “If ever a room was primed for nightmarish revelations, that one would be it. Did Lord Belfrey break the news with cameras and audio equipment present?”

“Of course not.” She bridled at the suggestion. “That would’ve been insensitive, not that I expect that would have bothered your Judy Nunn. None of the How sad ! And What a terrible thing ! as came out of the others’ mouths. Not so much as a shine of a tear in those little eyes of hers.”

“She doesn’t have particularly little eyes. Saucers wouldn’t suit someone that petite.”

“That’s right; take her side, Mrs. H! If it wasn’t unkind-something I leave to others,” loaded pause, “I’d say that your fall knocked all the sense out of you.” She shifted a high-heeled shoe nearer the tray, causing me to hope nastily that she would step in the prawn sandwich. Mrs. Malloy’s footwear are her life, although to be fair to her she does not have a cardboard boxed tower of them on floor-to-ceiling shelves, as Mrs. Spuds suggested was the case with Celia Belfrey.

At any other time, I would have grabbed the opportunity to fill Mrs. Malloy in on my visit to Witch Haven and describe for her not only Celia but also Nora Burton-the downtrodden paid companion straight out of a Gothic novel if ever there was one. Did she, like her fictional counterpart, harbor a thirst for revenge against an employer who never conceived that this fetcher and carrier had her own life history? I remembered the niggling feeling that something Nora had said was somehow odd. Just a tiny bit so, or it wouldn’t keep eluding me.

It had always been such fun-so productive-talking things of this nature over with Mrs. Malloy. Were those stimulating moments on the way out? I realized sharply how fond I was of her-bossy, snide ways and all. Such qualities were her buttress against the world at large and me in particular. After all, didn’t I have to be kept in my place to prevent my turning into the evil employer equal to any Celia Belfrey? The tiny bedroom, lacking all semblance of comfort without Thumper, shrank in upon itself, turning the window into a spy hole and making the sunlight look suspiciously sneaky.

“There has to be some reason, Mrs. H, for you not seeing straight. Any other time you’d be saying it’s staring us smack in the face as how last night’s car smash wasn’t no accident. That like as not what happened to Suzanne Varney was murder plain and simple.”

It was as well the loaded tray was off the bed or my convulsive start would have sent it flying. “Murder!” I exhaled the word as though I’d never heard it before. Such a thought hadn’t crossed my mind, even though I’m usually the first to suspect foul play, given (metaphorically speaking) the slightest whiff of burnt almonds.

“And who devised this murder?” I demanded of Mrs. Malloy, knowing full well what her answer would be.

“Judy Nunn; sticks out a mile. She knew Suzanne Varney…”

“So did Livonia Mayberry.” I reached down for the slopped, now stone-cold cup of tea, and took a deep swallow.

“Oh, her!” Mrs. M shrugged a taffeta shoulder. “She’s too mealy-mouthed to murder a goldfish without first sending for a priest to give it last rites. Besides, like she told you, Mayberry only entered Here Comes the Bride to stick it in her boyfriend’s ear. Judy Nunn wants to be Lord Belfrey’s choice so as to get her hands on Mucklesfeld’s gardens. A nut job for horticulture she is, and who did she see standing in the way of her dream but Suzanne Varney?”

“Amongst four other contestants.” I set the cup and saucer back on the tray. “Has she come clean with her plans for doing away with the rest of you?”

“Not need to be snarky, Mrs. H,” baleful stare. “What I’m thinking is, she knew she wouldn’t stand a chance against Suzanne Varney. Any woman as looks attractive dead-like Dr. Tommy told us she did-had to be she was a real smasher when breathing. Now, here’s how I see things going down.” Her voice became a touch more conciliatory. “Judy arranges for them to meet up somewhere close to Mucklesfeld for a bite to eat. Then, seeing as the fog was getting so bad, suggests they go the rest of the way in one car.”