Dorothy Cannell - She Shoots to Conquer

“Work done in this case courtesy of Georges’s minions.” I nodded. “That secret panel in the dining room must have been mentioned to Georges as one of Mucklesfeld’s manifold charms, and he went from there. I remember now his mentioning to me, in his usual conceited way, earlier in the week, before the crew came on board, he ordered some stage work done.”

“What’s the betting we’re closing in on what he was boasting about?” Alice gave a comradely hug to Judy, who said that if she were Georges she would have camouflaged the removable section of wall with a thicker layer of cobwebs.

“Shall we start scouting?” Livonia turned to Molly, at which point we heard the faintest sound of organ music, so thready it was almost like someone humming, which reminded me of the dean’s butler in The Landcroft Legacy . I remembered how the evilsounding tune had drifted into Semolina’s ears when she was lost in the moorland fog. The onset of music from an unseen source can be one of the scariest sounds in the world, even… I reminded myself, even when knowing, almost a hundred percent, that it was being filtered into the cellar on the instructions of Georges, if he wasn’t rapaciously twiddling knobs himself.

We all looked at each other, before gathering closer together.

“It’s all right,” said Molly without a quaver. “All part of the fun.”

“I’m getting meself worked up to chuckle me head off!” said Mrs. Malloy.

“Perverted sense of fun,” amended Alice rather jerkily. “I’ve… never cared much for that tune. It’s so bouncily jolly… it’s creepy.”

What tune? The music swelled to fill the cellar, making it impossible for any one of us not to recognize “Here Comes the Bride.” Silly not to have instantly known from the organ. The tempo picked up to skipping speed, then slowed… deepened… scraped the bottom of a misery a dirge could not have found. I could picture it-St. Mary’s in the Dell so welcoming when I was there that morning, the veiled bride being dragged, clutching and moaning, toward the now sacrificial altar.

“I told you it’s a horrible tune.” Most of Alice’s voluminous hair had tumbled down and she made no move to pile it back up.

“Any music can be twisted around.” Molly moved up close to her.

“Georges is a pain in the neck,” said Judy in her mild voice, “but seeing he must want us to get out of here sometime today, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gave us a hint, by having the music come in loudest near the removable stone, if there is such a piece.”

“’Course the trouble is,” I could hear the effort Mrs. Malloy made not to sound irritably contradictory, “this isn’t no great big space. So the music’s bloomin’ loud everywhere.”

At that moment the music gentled down to the point of sleepiness… or death. There followed a rush over to various walls, a pressing of ears to stone, a narrowed riveting of the eyes. Within moments, Livonia, the formerly timid and repressed, let out a whoop of joy.

“I’ve found it-the section of wall that shifts! The tune was piping directly into my ear. Oh, these cobwebs on my hands! But it doesn’t matter… the gap’s big enough for me to get a good grip. Some of you come and help me. I don’t want to be knocked backward, even if it is only Styrofoam coming down on me.”

I wasn’t among the first to rush forward. To be honest, I was glued to the floor, stunned that what had been posed as a farfetched theory appeared to be on the money. Mrs. Malloy wasn’t speedy, either. In her case the problem seemed be aching feet, although I pretended not to notice because even though she had behaved so badly to Judy at lunch, she was my pal and, as she often says, if you don’t have your pride and an egg in the fridge, what do you have?

As she and I discovered on making up the rear, the fake portion of wall came out in easily controllable portions, leaving us facing a door-sized opening, beyond which according to Alice-the first to go through-was a passageway. Ubiquitous at Mucklesfeld. This turned out to be similar in size and length to the one leading from the dining room’s secret exit, though less shadowy, due to a good-sized window above a door to our right. Of recording devices or human activity there was no sign, suggesting that immediately before the wall came down there had been rapid flight. But there was no budging the door when Judy tried the handle.

“It has to open to the outdoors,” I said, “or there would be no sense to the passage, just as there has to be a way up to our left. Did anyone notice when the music stopped? Or were we all too focused on the wall?”

With hardly another word said, we headed in hope of the staircase which, unless it had been blocked up for the pure enjoyment of doing so by Belfreys past or Georges present, had to be there. It was, and even Mrs. Malloy was renewed sufficiently that she ceased to hobble. Indeed, as we mounted the steps-wooden ones this time, which somehow seemed encouraging-her high heels tapped out a beat that I suddenly realized made an accompaniment to a renewal of organ music. That same oh so merrily macabre tune I would never again hear without thinking of death and decay, which was what we came upon as we headed around a turn of the stairs. In the corner of the dusk-filled landing, in a sitting sprawl, was a hideously grinning skeleton, gowned as for a debutante’s ball in diaphanous chiffon.

“Well,” exclaimed Mrs. Malloy over the now insanely pounding “Here Comes the Bride,” “don’t anyone tell me that isn’t Eleanor Belfrey-murdered by the husband just like I said. Wonder what closet Georges found her in?”

I t was the gown that chilled me to the core. Something about the cruelly draped neckline convinced me that here was the lovely ivory creation Eleanor had worn when posing for the portrait. I knew it was impossible that the hideously grinning skull and dangle of bones were her remnants, unless Nora Burton had lied to me and the physical resemblance to the vanished bride had been a lucky (for her) happenstance.

The spirit of adventure that had sustained us to this point evaporated. Not a word was spoken as we edged past the appalling object and hurried en masse up the next flight of stairs. But numbed though I was, I remembered Mrs. Spuds mentioning that Dr. Rowley’s skeleton from his student days was missing from the cupboard in his study.

Had it been nabbed or given willingly? More likely the latter. If Georges had mentioned to Tommy his need for one as part of the activities planned to help choose the right bride for Lord Belfrey, who could blame a fond cousin for stepping into the breach? The more sinister question was, who had suggested and perhaps offered up Eleanor’s gown? And why? Why take the risk of grievously wounding Lord Belfrey, knowing that he cherished her memory? Or was that exactly the point? Was someone seeking to provoke his lordship into putting a stop to the filming? If that was the hope, it would fall flat if none of the contestants babbled a description of the skeleton’s ensemble, which from the current vibes I was getting seemed likely.

On reaching the final steps, we were faced with a piece of paneling, which after a limited amount of poking and pushing by Judy slid sideways to reveal the library gallery. So this was how Lady Annabel had gained admittance, shielded from blatant sight by the sudden dimming of the lights. The place above and below was unoccupied. No audience to greet the return of the wanderers, no disembodied applause, not even a door ajar to provide mirthful or sympathetic peeking. Judy said she was more than ready to go outside and continue working, while the others, including Mrs. Malloy, seemed eager to scatter without further comment. I was ready for a word with the evil mastermind. I’m sorry to say that the thought I gave to Ben was a passing one. Events had pushed from my mind his witnessing the starry-eyed moment I’d shared with his lordship. Had I remembered, it would have seemed too silly to need bringing up. And really, after all, I shouldn’t have to explain myself. If anyone was at fault, it was Ben for being irritated. As a faithful wife I didn’t deserve suspicion.