Dorothy Cannell - She Shoots to Conquer

“I’ll bet you’ve hit the nail on the noggin.” My trusty cohort is not one to hand out praise on a shovel and she did not now beam approval, but her nod conveyed agreement of sufficient fervor that her hat shifted a couple of degrees.

“What can be keeping the butler fellow this long?” Ben again passed the suit of armor without so much as a nod of acknowledgment. Did the sensation of being preyed upon by unseen eyes and ears emanate from that chunk of metal? Or was there some other hovering presence counting the seconds until Ben dragged Mrs. Malloy and me out the door that would thud heavily and inexorably against us as we went fleeing back into the night? Aware that this was a chapter I had read more often than was good for me, I banished the chills and thrills and concentrated on the logical.

“Very likely Mr. Plunket has interrupted a session between his nibs and the director of the television show and is having difficulty stirring up interest in our trivial situation.” I felt regretfully compelled to add: “Under the circumstances, I think you’re right, darling, we are making nuisances of ourselves, and from what Mrs. Malloy said of Mr. Plunket’s reaction to me, I don’t suppose he’ll mind one bit returning to find us gone.”

Being… or thinking… myself good at picking up atmospheres, I imbibed waves of gratitude flowing my way from Ben, coupled with even stronger vibes that boded well should he and I ever be blessed in entering our own bedroom once again. But before he could utter more than a reprieved sounding half-syllable, Mrs. Malloy responded vehemently. “That’s right, Mrs. H, go blaming me for forcing us to do a bunk. Well, I for one don’t hold with bad manners-them being precluded in Article Forty-nine, paragraph fourteen of the CFCWA [Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association] Charter. Besides, it could be the reason Mr. Plunket’s not back yet is that his nibs and the director are talking about inviting us to be extras”-her face became a beacon far outshining the inadequate wattage of the hall-“or even give us speaking parts.”

To be on television? My shallow nature thrilled to the prospect. And, I reminded myself, on the practical side the exposure would be good for my career and Ben’s. He could casually mention his cookery books and the bistro. I could display a charming knowledge of furniture styles, fabrics, and ambience before the camera panned to my logo and business e-mail address. A couple with three children and a cat to support must sensibly seize opportunities offered. Besides… my incredibly beautiful fashion model cousin Vanessa would be sick with jealousy, as would that woman at church who always looked down her nose at me because I don’t know one opera from another… and there was that friend of hers who talked all the time about going to Paris for lunch…

Upon catching Ben’s eye, I reined in my delusions of approaching fame while being sufficiently resentful of his wet blanket attitude to move away from him and Mrs. Malloy and prowl over to the suit of armor. We have a pair at Merlin’s Court positioned against the staircase wall, and I was interested in discovering if there was any familial resemblance. If so, I could give this one an update on how often ours, according to the children, came alive when they thought no one was watching.

“Well,” said Mrs. Malloy in a defeatist voice, “could be I’m getting ahead of meself about us being included in the show. Not that it matters to me; it was you I was thinking about, like always, Mrs. H. I expect the truth is his nibs is ninety years old and Mr. Plunket is having trouble waking him from his nap.”

“Or deciding if he’s dead,” muttered Ben nastily. “In this lighting, his viability could be questionable for days.”

“No need for jokes, Mr. H, I don’t think it’s nice considering-now I come to remember-that Mr. Plunket said this had been a difficult evening already.” Either Mrs. Malloy or Ben sighed gustily; there followed the irritable tap-tap of her high heels. Without turning my head, I was aware of her standing with her back squarely to me a yard or so from the staircase.

“Good evening,” I addressed the suit of armor with the courtesy I had instilled into my children during the process of introductions. “What, my fine fellow, can you tell us of this place?”

Its visored face showed only slightly more expression than a guard at Buckingham Palace.

“Ever get an urge to scratch an itch?”

Oh, the folly of thinking oneself witty at the expense of the immobile. Foolish… infantile assumption! Before the smirk fully adhered to my face, I experienced a sharp pain above my right foot, and just as I started to hop, I saw the metal arms begin to rise through the grainy gloom and draw together… the metal paws curled inward… closing around the general vicinity of my throat.

Did I imagine the macabre chortle and the gleeful murmur of “Who’s immobile now?” Would I have stood there trembling on the edge of reason until those salad spoon hands closed around my throat, choking out every last spluttering gasp as my eyes stood out like Ping-Pong balls and… with a final expiring breath my nose blew off? It is not a question I allow myself to ponder in the dead of night when the ghastly memory returns. I was saved by a scream of unholy terror from behind me. Had I been capable of coherent thought, I would have assumed Ben or Mrs. Malloy had paused in thinking about themselves to notice my imminent danger. As it was, I turned in automated slow motion to witness Mrs. Malloy with her mouth opened in size to the entrance to a cave. For teeth she had stalactites and stalagmites. But what did it for her appearance was her wearing a hat on top of a hat-one with a circle of corded fringe cutting her face in half.

“I can’t see! I’m blind! Blind!” Her screech was one of reverberating panic. Immediately, Ben was at her side making the necessary adjustment to what I realized, on the verge of hysterical laughter, was a lamp shade. His attempts to pull it off completely were unsuccessful. Apparently the hat underneath, having first dibs, refused to give an inch.

“Why are you wearing that?” I asked her in a voice as deadened as the rest of me.

“It dropped from above.”

“Better a lamp shade than the roof of the temple. Poor old Samson had it worse!” Ben laughed comfortingly while placing an arm around her, drawing her into a hug, a gesture I would have found endearing had I been capable of the least flicker of emotion. “I expect someone took it off to dust and set it down on a piece of furniture or even the banister railing, forgot about it, and some vibration sent it toppling off balance.” His words may have helped soothe Mrs. Malloy but did nothing for me.

“Unfortunately, it’s not becoming,” I pronounced tonelessly. “Suit yourself, but I wouldn’t make it the basis of any future outfits.” Somewhere deep inside I recognized the cruelty. I should have told her that the lamp shade elongated her figure… provided an Audrey Hepburn elegance… but when one has come close to being murdered by a suit of armor something within the soul dies.

“Ellie!” Ben protested. Could this be the wife he revered except for those times when she failed to pass on telephone messages or interrupted when he was watching football?

“Oh, that’s all right!” responded Mrs. Malloy with a pathetically resigned look on her face. “Some people can never bear others being the center of attention, even when it’s the nasty sort.”

At that I started to shake. “A lamp shade fell on your head! Go ahead and sue his nibs! Insist that he tear down this horrible mausoleum. You won’t get any complaints from me. That thing… that evil thing kicked me, and that… that was before it attempted to choke me.”