Dorothy Cannell - She Shoots to Conquer

“I don’t see why.” Mrs. Malloy at her most petulant.

“Does anyone have a particular design vision for the interior or exterior?” I persisted nobly. “Elizabethan or Jacobean furniture would seem the obvious choice, but perhaps not…”

“I don’t think a home is about a particular type of furniture,” said Alice. “It should be about family, and I’ve been thinking,” she looked round the circle, “that the nicest thing we could do for Lord Belfrey would be to invite his two cousins over for a meal, which I would be happy to cook…”

“It would provide an immediate incentive for sprucing up the place,” I responded amicably.

“Our first joint project.” Wanda was quick to display her team spirit.

“You’re on to something.” Judy nodded cheerfully. “Dr. Rowley seems a very pleasant man.”

“Oh, yes!” Livonia continued her dream state. “Of course, like you I only met him briefly… just long enough for him to save me from the suit of armor and… but I wonder,” striving to refocus, “what his lordship’s female cousin is like-the one who lives at… ”

“Witch Haven?” I smiled at her. “I went there this morning to inquire if anyone knew,” somehow I managed to keep my voice steady, “who owned the black Lab who’d shown up here. Celia Belfrey mentioned an archery contest that used to take place here on the grounds.” I only threw this in because there was little else I could say about Miss Belfrey without revealing how unpleasant I had found her.

“Then that’s it!” Alice exclaimed. “We’ll bring back the event for our little get-together.”

There was a general murmuring of enthusiastic agreement. If Mrs. Malloy looked sour, it was undoubtedly because she hadn’t come up with the idea.

The library door opened with startling abruptness to reveal Mrs. Foot wheeling in a loaded tea trolley. Behind her came Mr. Plunket and Boris.

Georges bellowed: “Cut!”

The camera lights went out as if doused by buckets of water, casting the room into an unnatural darkness even for the late afternoon. Momentarily distracted by thoughts of the spread Ben would have laid on, it took a communal gasp for me to realize that something other than the prospect of cucumber sandwiches and iced fancies had created a palpable awareness of something major happening. The contestants were all looking upward. But it was not until Molly Duggan screamed that I noticed the white-wigged portrait lady poised on the uppermost step of the stairway. She was swirled around by shadows that blurred her features but did little to hide the bloody gash around her neck. Undeterred by the negative reception, she extended a satin-shod foot. However, her descent was foiled by a squeaking scurry of white along the railing and a long-tailed leap atop the Marie Antoinette coiffure!

W hitey, being no simpleton as rodents go, avoided the apparition’s clutches by performing an immediate vanishing act into the mist. Could it be I was the only one who had noticed him? That one shock at a time was more than the rest, including his nearest and dearest, could take in?

“Blimey! It’s none other than Lady Annabel Belfrey,” gasped Mr. Plunket. “The one that got her head sliced off by the guillotine when she was off on her holidays in France.”

“Gone to see her auntie she had, bless her, and now she’s paying us a visit.” Mrs. Foot sounded thoroughly delighted.

“Who wouldn’t die to make your acquaintance, Ma?” Boris’s voice floated above the hubbub. The ghost having created a sufficient stir and perhaps enduring the fright of her afterlife retreated back up the stairs to disappear into a denser confluence of shadow. I could have destroyed the impact of her appearance by stating she was the woman who worked at the sweetshop in the high street, who had hinted broadly that she was hoarding a secret relating to Mucklesfeld. And all so easily achieved, with apparel similar to that in the portrait, access and egress through a hidden panel in the gallery, simulated mist, and camera lights turned off so that an adjustment in eyesight was required prior to adequate refocusing. But much as I might think Georges’s contrivances-the flying cutlery at lunch and now this-foolishly theatrical and seriously distressing to Molly Duggan in particular (from the bleached look of her face), I had no right to interfere with the production of Here Comes the Bride .

If Georges was gloating, it was impossible to detect because he was surrounded by his crew. Mrs. Foot wheeled the trolley forward and Mr. Plunket and Boris assisted her in handing around cups of tea and setting down plates of fabulous-looking sandwiches, scones, and cakes on available surfaces. I was pleased and proud to see that Mrs. Malloy had come out of her sulks to join Livonia in comforting Molly.

“Now come on,” she held a teacup to the rigid lips, “it’s all over. And a poor excuse for a ghost she was-no wailing or icy chill. I’d be ashamed if it was me not to make more of an effort, but there you are; like I always say, there’s some as put their best foot forward and others as do the minimum. How about one of Mr. H’s nice ham rolls?”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Not on me, you’re not.”

“Just a bite, Molly,” Livonia urged. “I can’t believe I wasn’t terrified. This morning I would have bolted for my car.”

“We all knew coming here,” Wanda drank her tea with pinky raised, “that adjusting to whatever Mucklesfeld offered was key. Being a romantic, though, I have to admit I’m a little disappointed that there aren’t more of the usual type of reality show moments of alone time with his lordship, walks in the rose garden under the moonlight, intimate dinners for two in the gazebo.”

“The gazebo is in ruins along with the gardens,” Judy pointed out practically.

“Whatever the state of his property,” Alice again poked at her abundant hair, and spread a hand caressingly over her flowing skirt, “Lord Belfrey is more of a dreamboat than I dared to hope for. Even his Christian name, Aubrey, it couldn’t be more right! So distinguished. Not the forgettable sort like Jim or Tom.”

“I think Tom is a lovely name.” This from Livonia, but I stopped listening. Something had clicked into place for me… what it was Nora Burton had said that had afterwards niggled. When standing in the hall at Witch Haven, I mentioned that Here Comes the Bride was getting under way at Mucklesfeld and if sufficient drama wasn’t produced, Georges would have a tantrum. Her response had been to ask if I was talking about Lord Belfrey. At the time it had seemed understandable, seeing that she was new to Witch Haven, but was it? Moments later, Celia Belfrey had spoken of her cousin as Aubrey. Wasn’t it likely she had done so previously? Could it be that Nora Burton had been overplaying her role of discreet paid companion? If so, why? A thrill coursed through me. Who was Nora Burton? Could it possibly be…? I recalled his lordship asking me on the night of arrival if Ellie was short for Eleanor. I needed to get away and think. Georges provided the opportunity. He beckoned to me and informed me that I was free to leave.

“The next segment will be his lordship joining the contestants for a group chat, and you, my dear, would be de trop . Help yourself to whatever you wish from the tea trolley on your way out. No cause to mope, Mrs. Haskell, your services will be required again.” He swung the wheelchair away with all the aplomb of a Roman charioteer prepared to mow down lions and Christians alike.

I prepared to make good my escape by piling a plate high with goodies but deciding against a cup of tea. That I could get in the kitchen from Ben, which would be preferable to a solitary ponder. I was within a foot of the door when a scream even louder than the one hurled from Molly Duggan rent the air. Turning, I beheld all the contestants on their feet, but it was Wanda who appeared to be doing some sort of tribal dance while still emitting that dreadful sound to a grim chorus of the word Rat !