She Shoots to Conquer (21 page)

In little doubt I was looking at the recently hired secretary-companion Lord Belfrey had mentioned, I gave my name and explained my errand, including the fact that his lordship had suggested I try his cousin for information.

“I’m new to the area and don’t go out much.” Her voice was devoid of regional accent or personality. “My employer has the groceries delivered, does her banking herself, and therefore rarely sends me into the village. I don’t think I’ve seen him before and I think I would remember. To some people all black Labs would look alike, but I’m a dog lover—being allowed to bring my Sealyham with me was one of the reasons I decided to come to Witch Haven, and that boy there does have a particularly lovable face.” Even this was said without inflection.

After a momentary hesitation, during which I expected her to close the door, she beckoned me into a handsomely wainscotted hall with a beautiful Persian carpet picking up the tones of the warmly glowing red-tiled floor and the cobalt blue of the glass lantern overhead. Unlike Mucklesfeld, the ceiling here was low, but its arched timbers along with the graceful curve of the staircase drew the eye upward. I was aware of gilt-framed portraits of bewigged gentlemen and ladies in richly hewn satin gowns, a dark oak dower chest, and a painted black-and-gold chair in the Empire style with a fringed, dark blue velvet shawl tossed upon it to artistic effect. A silk fan with a tassel would have been too much; but I wondered if it had been tried.

“I’m Nora Burton, Celia Belfrey’s assistant.” The woman bent her head to look with a vestige of a smile down at Thumper and I noticed both the creping of her neck and the fine white tracing of a scar above and below the corner of her left eye. Or was that an age line brought into sharper relief than the rest by the overhead light under which she was directly standing? Perhaps sensing my glance, she ceased the flow of words to Thumper . . . that he
looked a nice boy, a good dog, someone had to be waiting anxiously at home . . . and raised her eyes to mine. The dutiful employee was replaced by a flesh-and-blood woman. “I hate the thought of dogs running loose, ready to get run down by the next passing car, but they do get out despite watching, especially the bigger ones, I imagine. It wouldn’t be fair to think nasty thoughts about the owner.”

“No, I wouldn’t do that.” Callous person that I was, I preferred not to think about the owner at all. “And the search isn’t a chore. Actually, I’m glad to get away from Mucklesfeld for a bit.”

“Is it like a madhouse, with the television show?”

It was nice of her to show a polite interest, though perhaps anything was a break in the daily drudge. I was getting a good feeling from Celia Belfrey’s house, possibly because likable people might have lived in it once upon a time, but I wasn’t predisposed, from what Lord Belfrey had told me, to be equally charmed by the present owner—should I be granted the opportunity to meet her. On the other hand, was it entirely fair to assume that because Nora Burton was dowdy, she was also downtrodden? Or even that his lordship’s view might not be slanted by Celia’s removal of Eleanor’s portrait on the grounds that it belonged to her? I dragged my mind back to what Nora Burton had asked about what was currently going on at Mucklesfeld.

“Things are just getting under way, but I expect the drama will increase rapidly. If it doesn’t, Georges will have a major disappointment tantrum.”

“Lord Belfrey?”

“No, the director.”

“I’m new here,” she reminded me, “and haven’t met his lordship. Forester, the handyman here who was with Miss Belfrey’s father for years, says his lordship rarely visited at Mucklesfeld as a boy or a young man.”

“Miss Burton,” came an irritable, well-carrying voice from a room down the hall with its door, I now noticed, ajar, “who are you talking to out there?”

“Excuse me.” The dutiful employee slipped back into place behind the horn-rimmed glasses. “I’ll explain to Miss Belfrey why you came.” She departed without saying she would return, but I took that to be left hanging in the air; if I were to be evicted, Cousin Celia would not dilly-dally giving the order. Several slow-ticking minutes passed. I thought about the children with yearning. Thumper availed himself of the opportunity to sit down and scratch. A paunchy periwigged gentleman on the wall kept me in his sideways leer whichever way I moved. And if the door had not suddenly reopened, I might have decided that Celia Belfrey had died from an overdose of smelling salts on being told his lordship had sent me to spy on her.

“Miss Belfrey will see you and the dog,” Nora Burton informed me in the neutral tones of the impeccably trained maid-servant seen on old black and white movies—invariably named Mary or Ethel and too dimwitted to reveal to the mustached, laconic inspector from Scotland Yard what she had overheard when giving the drawing-room brass doorknob a good polish. Thus ensuring she would get herself strangled, to be found in the butler’s pantry in an ungainly sprawl of thick stockings, with an adenoidal gape on her face.

“Thank you.” I picked up the tie lead I had dropped on entering the house and drew Thumper to my side.

“If you will kindly follow me into Miss Belfrey’s sitting room.”

Nora stood aside as I entered, but remained in the doorway as I crossed parquet turned golden by the sunlight entering through the latticed windows despite the raindrops spattering the glass. It was a room as lovely as the hall, with the richness of red and cobalt blue accenting perfectly other time-muted shades. The furniture was an unerring mingling of exquisite antiques and some fine contemporary pieces, including two ivory linen sofas on either side of the Adam fireplace. The woman seated on the one with its back to the windows, face turned toward the door, bore a strong resemblance to Lord Belfrey, despite the fact that she could never have been a beauty even when young. The female version of his features
and black eyes conveyed a hardness impervious to rose pink silk blouse and matching cashmere cardigan draped around the shoulders. The straight, midlength hair was too black for her middle-aged skin, although I found myself doubting that it was dyed, and the slash of red that comprised her mouth suggested a woman who would stop at nothing to get her own way. She did not shift position on the sofa, let alone rise to her feet. As she watched my approach, those eyes never dipping to take in Thumper, a slow, cruel smile curved that mouth into a scythe.

“Look your fill,” her voice was low and throaty.

“I’m sorry . . . ?”

“At the portrait of my stepmother above the mantel.” She raised a silk-sleeved arm, which fell back to reveal a ringless hand. “It’s why he sent you, isn’t it?”

8

I 
f you’ll forgive my saying so,” Celia Belfrey continued with obvious indifference to whether I did or not, “but you’re a pale copy of her. My father’s second wife, previously Eleanor Lambert-Onger, was undoubtedly a beauty.”

“Yes, she was.” I rounded the piecrust coffee table for a closer look and admitted to myself the truth of what she had said. I could see the resemblance to myself in the upswept light brown hair . . . the shape of the eyes and the mouth; but even had I been painted wearing that softly drifting dream of a dress evocative of the turn of the twentieth century when creamy lace and organza made women look as though they belonged always in rose gardens, I didn’t have that look . . . nor could I ever achieve it . . . of infinite femininity coupled with an elusive loveliness. “Lord Belfrey did mention the portrait,” I said.

“And did he tell you I marched into Mucklesfeld and snatched it away from under his furious nose?” Enjoyment seethed through that husky voice. I was a stranger intruding into her home, making
me the ideal object onto which to spew her venom. It would be like talking aloud to herself, only better. The thought curled up in my mind that Celia Belfrey’s reclusiveness might not be entirely self-imposed. Had she over time lost the goodwill of the locals? Had old friendships dwindled away to the obligatory Christmas card; leaving only kindly Tommy Rowley willing to spend time with her? When I didn’t answer, the black eyes flashed slyly. “Of course he told you. Being a fool, Aubrey would be incredibly taken with the resemblance, such as it is, and would grasp at any opportunity to talk to you about her. The fact that Eleanor made off with not only the family jewels but Father’s dog, too, wouldn’t cut any ice with him. The only time he came to Mucklesfeld during the less than a year of the marriage, it was laughably apparent that after getting one look at her going up the stairs he was lost. It was also clear that he saw something sinister in her not coming down to join us for tea or dinner—but I was glad not to have to see Father watching her as though he wouldn’t be able to get enough if he kept her in bed all day. He’d bought her by agreeing to pay off her father’s gambling debts, but having her wasn’t enough for him—he wanted her love, would have done anything including groveling on the ground to get it.”

Celia Belfrey’s bile would have been ugly anywhere, but in that lovely room with the onset silvery rain on the windows and Thumper looking gently perplexed it was a violation. When I still remained silent, she turned her head sharply toward Nora Burton still standing in the doorway—looking taller within that framing than I had thought in the hall. It was the bulky cardigan and shapeless skirt that shortened her up close.

“Why are you hovering like that?”

“I wondered, Miss Belfrey,” Nora Burton replied evenly, “if you might wish me to bring in a pot of tea. You usually ask for one around this time.”

“And you thought our visitor might like one?” The black eyes shifted back to me, intent on discomfiting, although I suspected she wanted me to stay.

“No, thank you. If you can tell me whether you know this dog, I’ll be on my way.”

Celia Belfrey flicked dismissing fingers in the direction of the doorway. When the door closed, the eyes went to Thumper. “I’m not sure. I don’t like dogs; that Scottie of Father’s once nipped me quite badly. His cousin Tommy Rowley had to come round and give me some stitches, but my reasonable demand that the creature be put down was ignored, although Father sometimes said he could throttle the wretch when it wouldn’t come when called or chewed on his shoes.”

“Then I’ll . . .”

“Not so fast,” raising an imperious hand. “I’ve said I’m not sure if I’ve seen this dog before. Sit down,” it was an order, “while I think. I abhor being rushed.”

Reluctantly, I seated myself on the sofa facing the one she occupied. “Forester, the old man who works for me, mentioned that the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Spendlow—word has it that she’s an atheist—recently got a dog from Animal Rescue. That’s
them
, isn’t it, out to save the planet and every life-form on it? One would have thought a man of the cloth could have found a member of some other fringe group to marry. But I do believe that dog was a poodle mix.”

“Then not Thumper here.” I started to rise, to be waved back into place.

“I also remember hearing that Mr. Manning from Grange Cottage had a dog, and in his case I believe it was a black Lab.” She had me hooked and knew it. “He died a couple of months ago. Crossed the road in front of a car and got hit.”

“Oh, the poor dear!” I fought down the urge to cover Thumper’s ears. Grimkirk being a small place, the deceased might have been a relative of his.

“Hardly cut down in his prime.”

“Even so . . .”

“Well into his eighties.”

“Oh!”

Celia Belfrey read my look and grimaced a smile. “You thought I meant the dog. What are you—a member of your own wacky bleeding hearts group? This excessive interest in a stray!” Her insolence froze me in place, as it must have done so many others that she no longer anticipated outrage and was left fully basking in her successes as a verbal slasher. As a girl she had perhaps heard herself described too often as spirited:
You should hear her—the things Celia Belfrey says, really too marvelously funny and clever! People just fall apart when she lets them have it
. “Speaking of Mr. Manning’s fatal accident brings me back to Mrs. Spendlow and the spectacle Aubrey Belfrey has chosen to make of himself with this dreadful reality show. I’m referring, of course, to last night’s car crash.”

“What does Mrs. Spendlow have to do with that?”

“According to Tommy Rowley, who came rushing round to bring the news early this morning, the woman killed was named Suzanne Varning—”

“Varney.”

Celia Belfrey shrugged. “What does it matter, she won’t be using any name from now on. My point about Mrs. Spendlow is that yesterday afternoon, Nora mentioned that a woman had come to the door saying she had managed to get herself lost and asking for directions to the vicarage. She claimed to have made arrangements to spend a few hours with Mrs. Spendlow, an old friend whom she hadn’t seen in years. I told Nora I hoped she’d had sufficient sense to ask the woman’s name . . . she could have shown up hoping to get into Witch Haven and have a look around. As you can see, everything I have is valuable and women living alone can be easy prey. Yes, I have Forester, but he’s getting doddery. Years ago he would have grabbed that and provided some protection.” She indicated a longbow that I had not previously noticed—perhaps because it melded with the ambience of the room surprisingly well—hanging above a low bookcase.