She Shoots to Conquer (23 page)

“It was like driving through a mattress,” I said.

“I was here when Lord Belfrey came to fetch the doctor. These
last few years I haven’t had Frank to hurry home to, so I’m more than pleased to stay on and put his dinner in the oven. The mercy was that he’d just got back from going on a walk.”

“In the fog?”

My startled exclamation roused Archbishop Thumper to place his head on my knee as if to save me from bouncing up in the air. Mrs. Spuds’s periwinkle blue eyes twinkled. “Wonderful as he is, Dr. Rowley has his odd ways. Same as most men, including my Frank—for him it was going on peculiar diets, like the time all he would eat was butter beans with vinegar. For years the doctor’s kept a skeleton from his medical student days in the hall wardrobe. When he comes in, I’ll be asking him where it’s gone because it wasn’t there this morning. The fog wasn’t so bad when he set off—saying he was stiff from sitting in the surgery late into the afternoon and a walk would help loosen his back—but between you and me, love, it had seemed to me he’d been a little down in the dumps all week.”

“Might that have had something to do with the start of filming
Here Comes the Bride
?”

“You mean that he might not have approved? I wouldn’t think so, love. What goes on at Mucklesfeld has never seemed to interest him overmuch. There was a rift, you see, between his father and grandfather that led to the change of name to Rowley, and the doctor was brought up not expecting any closeness with the Belfreys. His late lordship treated him strictly as the local GP. As for Celia Belfrey, I’ve always thought the only reason she’s accepted him halfways as a relation is he’s the only person willing to spend half an hour in her company. His mother—that wasn’t considered good enough to marry into the family—was the same wonderfully kind sort. A lovely home she made here,” Mrs. Spuds looked around the kitchen, “and bless him, Dr. Rowley has kept things just like she had them. And now,” she got to her feet, “why don’t you stay resting yourself while I go into the sitting room and give Linda Dawkins a ring?” She hesitated in the doorway when Archbishop Thumper gave a low whine before putting his head down
on his paws. “Just listen to him; anyone would think he’s not keen to go home.”

“Will she really want him back?”

“Not want, love, but there’s that promise to her father, and Linda’s the sort who’d worry she’d go to hell if she broke it. A shame,” the blue eyes took in every inch of my face, “that he can’t be with someone who’d love him as much as Mr. Manning did. And him such a young dog—not more than two, I’d say. But sadly, life’s what it is, as my Frank used to say.”

Mrs. Spuds disappeared and, with the kitchen door left ajar I soon heard her voice, although not what she was saying, speaking in interrupted intervals. Meanwhile, I sat with hands clenched in my lap. I must not allow Archbishop Thumper or myself to hope. For what? That Mr. Manning had contacted Mrs. Dawkins from beyond the grave to tell her he was releasing her from her promise, and that she should let the nice woman who’d found his beloved dog seek a loving home for him, if keeping him herself was out of the question. Which of course it was. Hadn’t I for years told Ben and the children that bringing in another animal wouldn’t be fair to Tobias, who was used to being a pampered
only
pet? That the time for a dog would be when he went to cat heaven? Besides . . . what to do with my new friend in the meantime? It would be too much of an imposition to take him back to Mucklesfeld, although I was sure Lord Belfrey would be nice about it—if only because I was the one asking the favor. No, I must bite the bullet.

When Mrs. Spuds came back into the kitchen, I turned to look up at her. “Were you able to reach Mrs. Dawkins?” My voice stayed steady even when I felt the soft furry face shift to my foot.

“Caught her just as she was about to leave for the hairdresser. Like I thought, she hadn’t worked herself into a state about Archie, but said she’d be around to fetch him after her appointment if I didn’t mind keeping him for another hour. Which of course I don’t, love.”

“Thank you.”

“No trouble, is he? Now,” avoiding looking directly at me,
“how about you staying for a bite of lunch?” Her eyes went to the wall clock. “It’s close on noon and I always get something ready before half past in case the doctor decides to come in between morning surgery and his afternoon rounds. Most often he doesn’t, being pressed for time, his patients do like to keep him chatting, so I always do something that can be saved for his tea. Just before you arrived, I’d decided on making salmon and cucumber sandwiches. It’s red salmon. I don’t mind the pink myself, but as I used to say to Frank, you can’t expect a doctor to eat pink salmon. Especially one that works as hard as my Dr. Rowley.”

“That’s awfully kind of you, but I should get going.” Moving would necessitate dislodging Archbishop Thumper’s face from my foot. While I was bracing myself, I remembered my reason for coming here. Putting my hand in my pocket, I felt the piece of plastic that had been in his mouth when coming up from the ravine after replacing the bouquet. My hand felt for his silken head. Then I drew out Mrs. Malloy’s note, got to my feet, and handed it to Mrs. Spuds.

“One of the contestants asked me to give this to you.” I didn’t add that she was a friend of mine, so as not to put pressure on Mrs. Spuds. She unfolded and read it. When she looked up, I saw the uncertainty on her face.

“I don’t know, love. Even if this lady is paying, I wouldn’t feel it right to speak to any of the ladies I know about giving a hand at Mucklesfeld without first talking to Lord Belfrey. And I’m not sure I want to put myself in the middle like that. He and Dr. Rowley have begun to establish a nice relationship—working toward becoming friends after all these years of not having contact, let alone seeing each other. No, love, I think I’d best stay out of things. Would you mind telling that to the lady?”

“Of course not,” I said, sensing there was something held back.

Mrs. Spuds pressed a hand to her snowy white hair. “There’s the three people now working for his lordship; I gather he’s fond . . . protective of them. Could be he’d worry that bringing in extra help might put their noses out of joint.”

Silently I agreed with her on this, but still felt there was more going on. “What about the staff employed by Lord Giles Belfrey? Are they still in the area?”

Now we were getting to the root of the matter. “Bless you, love, there wasn’t anyone for near on thirty years, excepting old Forester. He didn’t go to Miss Belfrey at Witch Haven until after her father died. The rest—butler, housekeeper, and maids—were all got rid of right after Lord Giles’s young wife left him. It was like he went mad with grief. Those that went to Mucklesfeld hoping to help—friends and acquaintances along with the vicar, not Mr. Spendlow but the one before—were met at the door by a disheveled, sunken-faced man they had trouble believing was the one they had known. Like you can imagine, love, the nightmare stories grew and Mucklesfeld became a place to be avoided as quickly as possible, even in daylight. Miss Belfrey stayed on for several years before, so she told Dr. Rowley, deciding that if she didn’t move to Witch Haven, she’d end up as crazy as her father.”

“She struck me as unpleasantly sane.”

Mrs. Spuds smiled faintly. “Apart from her obsession with shoes. Apparently she has stacks and stacks still in their boxes, never worn—enough to fill an entire closet to the ceiling. But then I suppose a lot of women are nutty about shoes.” She paused. “There, love, I didn’t like to tell you how people around here think of Mucklesfeld—not with you staying as a guest of his lordship—but sometimes beating around the bush can make the point you’re trying to avoid. And Dr. Rowley says he’s never felt any evil vibrations or what have you, and if ever there’s a man of sense, he’s it. Like he says, it’s not as though Lord Giles murdered his young wife.”

“But is that the local theory?”

“That’s people for you—a young wife vanishes overnight. It makes a better story than her getting fed up and bunking off.”

“Did you know her?” I gave Archbishop Thumper a firmly final pat and moved toward the doorway.

“Only from seeing her at church or in the high street. I could never make out if she was standoffish or deeply unhappy.”

There was no doubt about the whine that accompanied us along with the patter of paws into the hall. My farewell to Mrs. Spuds was speedier than politeness required, but she clearly understood, saying she would close the front door as soon as I was outside to prevent an attempt to follow me.

It had stopped raining; but instead of thinking kind thoughts of Mother Nature, I took exception to the happy blue of the sky. Dear, dear Archbishop . . . no, just Thumper. That’s who he would always be to me when I looked back to our hours together. Love had been ours for one brief, shimmering moment in time. It had happened: to his lordship at the moment of looking into Eleanor Belfrey’s eyes as she turned to face him on the staircase at Mucklesfeld . . . to all those others down through the ages whose souls had communicated in a moment of instant recognition more clearly than the spoken word. Our bond took nothing away from what Thumper had shared with Mr. Manning. Not having witnessed the accident that took his master’s life, Thumper must have continued to expect his return. This explained his making off whenever Mr. or Mrs. Dawkins left the garden gate open. Searching, forever searching, until he came through my bedroom window and the truth revealed itself: that Mr. Manning was gone, never to return except in hallowed memory, and now was the time to live again.

The poignant leaning of the weeping willow brought tears to my eyes. Stop it! I brushed them away sternly. Cease this ridiculous wallowing! Thumper is a dog. A very nice one—affectionate, sweet-natured, but unlikely to remember me except as a pleasant sniff or two if we crossed paths in a fortnight. Which wouldn’t happen anyway because within the week I would be back at Merlin’s Court with all who mattered most, Ben and the children and Tobias on my lap. I resolutely ignored the possible absence of Mrs. Malloy. That too—of far greater significance than a black Lab—must be borne if necessary.

I trod purposely on through the high street. When coming up the drive at Mucklesfeld, I saw Lord Belfrey and Judy Nunn standing in front of the broken wall. She appeared particularly
diminutive next to his tall figure, but it was clear from her feet-apart stance and energetic gesturing that she was in no way intimidated by him. I saw him nod as if in agreement. To walk behind them to reach one of the back doors into the house seemed inappropriate, particularly when I noticed a long-haired cameraman who on shifting position looked to be the girl named Lucy. It would have to be the front door, I decided.

This meant ringing the bell, sending a rumble of thunder down my spine if not throughout the entire interior. Fortunately, for me if not for him, Mr. Plunket must have been standing with nothing to do within inches of the door. He opened it as if expecting the black-hooded Grim Reaper complete with scythe and logbook . . . sorry, no death quips after yesterday evening. Stepping aside to allow me to creep around him, he wished me a good afternoon as if announcing that there had been an official statement from Buckingham Palace that the world was to end in twenty minutes, and all who were able should immediately vacate the planet or face a heavy fine. I parted the shadows with my hands and smiled at him through my own sorrow.

“Hello, Mr. Plunket. I see you escaped from the pantry.”

“Pantry?” That could have been him or the mournful echo of my own voice.

“Or whatever cubicle you and Mrs. Foot disappeared into when Monsieur LeBois ordered you out of the kitchen this morning.” I pictured a dark space where tuftless brooms and rank-smelling mops were sent to die. Oh, bother! I was doing it again!

“The artistic temperament. I’m sure he means to be nice.”

I stared at Mr. Plunket and thought: Here is a man who can make allowances for the foibles of others when surely he must know that some—meaning Georges LeBois—spoke of him as Wart Face and others (including myself) harbored equally unkind thoughts. Never again, I vowed, would I notice anything except his devotion to Lord Belfrey, Mrs. Foot, and Boris.

“How did the rest of the morning go?” I asked him.

“Very exciting.” No gleam of enthusiasm accompanied this
response. “His nibs met with all the contestants as a group and afterwards with each in turn. Them camera people kept coming from every which way with their equipment, giving orders like they’re the ones owning the place. It’s a wonder his nibs isn’t worn to the bone, but he made sure to pass the time of day when he saw me crawling one of the upstairs passageways calling for Whitey. It turns out he’d escaped from his cage—not his nibs, I don’t mean.”

“I understand.”

“Poor little Whitey! Mrs. Foot and Boris has both been frantic. She broke down in tears after your husband asked for a torch to check something inside the cooker, and the one that’s always wedged under a corner of the sink cupboard to keep it straight wasn’t there. Must have got knocked out and rolled somewhere. Boris and me both knew what was really getting to her. Whitey’s like the child she never had.” Mr. Plunket wiped an eye. “But then she remembered a hole in the wall in that upper passageway and thought perhaps he’d hidden out in there. I thought I heard a squeaking, but it could’ve been wishful thinking.”

“He’ll show up.” I spoke with awful certainty.

Mr. Plunket’s eyes widened. “Are you one of those, Mrs. Halibut . . . ?”

“Haskell.”

He nodded. “One of those with psychotic tendencies?”

It took a second for the penny to drop, at which point I saw no harm in giving him the response he wanted without lying. “I don’t claim to be psychic, but I do have feelings.” The air around us hummed portentously. “My husband calls me a sensitive.” True. Ben said something to this effect every time I presented him with his missing watch or reading glasses.

“Then you think Whitey is all right?” Mr. Plunket’s voice throbbed with hope.

“I’m certain,” I closed my mind to the thought, “that in the very near future he will make a grand reentrance. “Speaking of my husband . . .”