She Shoots to Conquer

by Dorothy Cannell

“Not since last night.”

  Mrs. Malloy heaved an annoyed sigh. “Well, that’s nice! After me telling you as how he wanted a word with you about me being one of the contestants! Sometimes, Mrs. H, I can’t make you out. Anyone would think you was trying to put spokes in the wheels of him marrying me.”

  “Don’t take your jitters out on me.” I grabbed at her elbow as she swayed dangerously on those silly high heels. “I’m sure Ben will have given him his blessing, there’s no reason it had to come from my mouth. What you need to do,” a glance at my watch, “is get downstairs and join the remaining contestants, who should be arriving in ten minutes.”

  “What do you mean, remaining?” She was always good at picking up nuances.

  “Two, besides yourself, are already here.” I steered her toward the door. “Judy Nunn and a rather pretty woman in her early forties named Livonia Mayberry. I want you to be particularly kind to Livonia, Mrs. Malloy.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “She’s the sort who’ll always need someone on her side.”

  “Well, let that be you, Mrs. H!” Outrage shot sparks out the back of her head. “I’ve got to think of meself for a change.”

  Talk about a nose out of joint! The door banged behind her and I turned to return Thumper’s speaking look. “Here Comes the Bride could turn ugly,” I told him sadly. “I think you should leave Mucklesfeld before a murder takes place.”

  7

  S ome five minutes later, with Mrs. Malloy’s note to Mrs. Spuds in my jacket pocket and Thumper at my heels, I descended to the hall by way of the front stairs because that was the way Thumper took me and I didn’t want to argue. Especially when we must soon part. I hoped the timing would prevent my being caught up in a mob of activity with Georges LeBois and his crew milling feverishly around in readiness for Lord Belfrey’s formal greeting of the contestants. As it was, the hall was empty save for Judy Nunn, still wearing the same brown twill slacks and the hiking jacket with its numerous buttoned-down outer pockets. She stood, dwarfed by most of the furnishings, writing in a notebook. Looking up at my approach, she closed it after tucking the pencil inside.

  “Hello, there!” she said in her brisk, friendly way. “Five minutes to go before I have to be outside for the opening scene-‘The Contestants Arrive.’ As per instructions from a young woman named Lucy, your friend Mrs. Malloy, Livonia, and I are to join the other three in coming up the drive as if we too are just getting here.”

  “Have you met Mrs. Malloy?”

  “We introduced ourselves. She and Livonia went with Lucy to do a practice walk. I was just jotting down some suggestions I have for Lord Belfrey in regard to the gardens and outlying grounds. I haven’t yet managed to see him.” A smile flitted across her face. “It took longer than needed to find his study because Livonia and I didn’t open the door with the posted order to keep out, by authority of Georges LeBois.”

  “Oh?”

  “When I finally realized that he might have sent us on a wild goose chase and decided to risk penalty of whatever the fiendish fellow had in mind, Lord Belfrey wasn’t in the study. That was after I had lost Livonia down that passageway,” pointing with the notebook-a sensibly sized brown leather one.

  “I know,” I said, negotiating my way further toward her with Thumper as my shadow. “I’d just come from the kitchen when she came back out here.”

  “Upset? Not inclined to think I’d ditched her on purpose, I hope?”

  “For a moment perhaps, but she decided you were too nice to join Georges in pulling not so funny tricks.”

  “Good!” Judy looked relieved. “Right after we divided up, I came to a door that instead of opening into a room took me outside.”

  “The one we came in?”

  “Don’t think so, although this place is such a warren. On the bright side, who should be coming my way from the wooded area with the broken wall but that sad-faced man Boris, so I waited to ask him about the study. And after he told me which room it was, I couldn’t bring myself to rush off, not when he kept standing there like he had a knife stuck in his back. I’m sorry to say,” she tucked the notebook into a chest pocket and her hands into the capacious side ones, “I forgot about Livonia and had a little chat with him.”

  “A chat?” My mind boggled.

  “A rather confused one about begonias.” Again the smile. “He thought they were people from the land of Begonia. He told me he had mixed with a lot of foreigners when he worked in circuses. I wanted to ask why he had left that world, but I remembered Livonia-too late as it turned out, and now if I don’t want to goof up things some more, I suppose I’d better get outside. Nice getting to know you, Ellie.” Hands removed from the pockets, right arm raised in a sideways salute, she sped away-shoulders forward, short fly-away beige hair matching the jacket.

  There went stiff competition for Mrs. Malloy. If ever a woman had energy to spare, it was Judy Nunn. And energy would certainly be a key virtue in bringing the house and grounds back to life. I also had the feeling that Judy was kind, something to which I sensed strongly Lord Belfrey would respond and Mr. Plunket, Mrs. Foot, and Boris would need from whoever was to become mistress of Mucklesfeld.

  These thoughts were nudged aside by what she had said about Boris. A circus worker! It went together with Mrs. Foot saying he had enjoyed seeing Whitey swinging from the frying pan handle like a trapeze artist. A politely inquiring woof from Thumper brought me back into focus. He was eyeing the front door hopefully. The word walk floated in a balloon over his head. But of course we couldn’t exit that way. I could picture all too well Georges’s fury if we blundered into what would have been a successful take, if that was the right word. It also wouldn’t be fair to distract the contestants. I wondered if Mrs. Malloy had overcome her case of the jitters and how Livonia was holding up. Would it turn out that Georges LeBois had determined it would add an extra dollop of drama if the six contestants discovered on arrival that they were each a link in a chain of acquaintances, if not actual friends? It would be particularly interesting to learn the identity of the woman coming after Livonia. Meanwhile, I looked down at Thumper.

  “Come on, we’ll look for the exit Judy found down that passageway.” It seemed like one of Georges’s tricks to let him think we were off on a casual walk. Perhaps I flattered myself unduly in assuming Thumper would miss me terribly. Perhaps he showed no sign of being desperate to return to the bosom of his family because he was suffering from doggie amnesia. Perhaps he had an intense interest in home decorating and hoped I could teach him a thing or two on the subject. My gaze shifted away from his. Enough of this sentimental slosh! What must be had better be done fast or I’d have to go into mourning for a year and black is not my best color.

  This decided, I strode in the impressive Judy Nunn manner for all of six steps, before stopping beside the huge jardinière displaying the dead plant. Next to it was the door that Georges had posted off-limits. The study. I made to move on, but stopped… seized by an impulse that had nothing to do with a desire to snoop or a wish to find a book. Mucklesfeld possessed a library. No, the shameful truth is I had that sudden, unbidden urge to defy authority. My late mother, lovely mercurial creature that she was, once told me with scarcely veiled pride that sometimes when she came up behind a policeman on duty she experienced an almost irresistible impulse to tip his helmet over his face. But in my case it was personal. Georges LeBois needed stamping on good and proper, to use a familiar phrase from Mrs. Malloy. Thinking of how I’d let her down that morning, in part because Georges had delayed me in the kitchen, I reached without a quiver of remorse for the door handle.

  The thrill of wickedness faded the moment I stepped into the study. I had been confident of finding it empty. Certainly the last person I expected to see standing, head bent, his back to me, in front of a desk almost the width of the room was Lord Belfrey. He should have been at the top of the drive watching the women who would soon be vying for his hand make their way toward him. Shock switched th
e drive to a church aisle and his lordship into Henry VIII. So silly! His lordship wasn’t aiming for six wives, just one out of that number. But then neither had Henry, whatever his faults, been greedy enough to want all at once. He’d had to go through a lot to find the happiness a king deserved. The memory jingle learned at school returned to me: Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, outlived. A nervous giggle tickled its way up my throat, but mercifully subsided when Lord Belfrey turned around to face me… us. Thumper was seated to attention, demonstrating that he at least had some manners.

  “I’m sorry, your lordship, I should have knocked. But… that’s neither here nor there; I’ve no business coming in.”

  His expression was serious, solemn even, until slowly warming into a smile of such subtle masculine-make that virile-charm that it was impossible not to relax a little and smile back.

  “Who’s your friend?” He beckoned to Thumper, who went willingly, although at a sedate pace, to be stroked. The image came of Ben’s hand on the dark head and I felt myself blushing, which was so silly. What woman on the better side of eighty wouldn’t experience a small fluttery thrill when looking into the dark eyes under well-shaped black brows? The left eyebrow quirked and the smile deepened as he straightened up after a final pat. “You look guilty. Did you kidnap him, Mrs. Haskell?”

  “Ellie, please.”

  “But not short for Eleanor.” The smile faded slightly.

  Instantly, the rosy cloudlike feeling vanished.

  “Giselle.” I was glad when Thumper returned to sit beside me, warm against my leg.

  “I remember.” He reached behind him for a pencil. “Your resemblance to her portrait is uncanny.”

  “It happens,” I said at my most inane, then quickly. “Mrs. Malloy told me you wanted to speak to me about her becoming one of the contestants. We both thought it very gallant of you… but of course the decision is hers… and yours. And now I’ll get out of here. I was sure you were outside and… again; I should never have come in here. You will be wishing me at the moon when you’ll be anxious to be greeting your arriving… guests.”

  “Georges doesn’t want me out on the drive for another half hour. Until then I’m not a contributing factor.” The smile was there-wry, self-deprecating, and unable to conceal… what? Minor misgivings? Or a deep-rooted sorrow? “He wants to get some shots of the women meeting for the first time, sizing each other up, before bringing me on camera. Cold-blooded, wouldn’t you say, Ellie?”

  “Well,” looking down at Thumper for moral support, “I suppose that’s the nature of a reality show.”

  “Have you ever watched one?” He sounded as though my answer was important to him. But did he really want to know my thoughts for their own sake, or because the opinion he desired was that of Eleanor Belfrey? How well had he known her, if at all? Could any sensible man succumb to a portrait without having seen the original?

  “No, but that doesn’t mean that I think there’s anything innately wrong with them. It’s just that I,” blundering on, “prefer fictional entertainment and had parents who,” unable to keep from smiling, “thought reality highly overrated.”

  He raised a dark inquiring eyebrow, genuine amusement again hovering around his mouth. “That must have made for an interesting childhood.”

  “Rather magical in its way.”

  “Did it leave you still believing in fairy tales?”

  “Perhaps.” I stood there feeling as though the conversation was taking place underwater.

  “And do any of us get to write our own happy endings, or are we all the powerless pawns of fate, Ellie?”

  Hadn’t Carson Grant posed the same question to Wisteria Whitworth? And hadn’t she wondered, before succumbing to his demanding lips, whether something sinister lurked behind his willingness to lay bare his romantic soul? Fortunately, Lord Belfrey’s motives were immaterial. He had no motive for wishing to either marry or murder me. We were overnight acquaintances. I had not stumbled upon a maleficent secret that he had striven ruthlessly through the years to conceal. Neither was I the possessor of a vast fortune that, if he could get his wicked hands on, would enable him to continue a life of depravity without the vulgar restrictions imposed by a lack of cash. What rubbish I was thinking! All blame to my parents’ life view! His lordship had come up with a twenty-first-century scheme to settle his financial difficulties and I was a married woman. I pictured Ben slogging in this man’s archaic kitchen and swam back up to the surface at a nudge on my left by Thumper.

  “You’re not leaving your life up to fate, Lord Belfrey.” I concentrated on the hand twiddling the pencil. “Neither do most of us. I hope Here Comes the Bride will be a smashing success and you will be very happy with the woman of your choice.”

  “Even if that woman is Mrs. Malloy?”

  “Of course.”

  “You will miss her.”

  “That doesn’t enter into it. I really should be going.”

  “Wait just a moment. I do have to get outside but”-his eyes caught mine in their dark, compelling gaze-I admit to dragging my feet. “This wasn’t an easy decision to reach and I’d like you to understand how I came to it.”

  I nodded mutely.

  “Mucklesfeld is pretty much all I have to show for my life. I’ve had two failed marriages and a career that was unremarkable before the firm I worked for collapsed. Saving the ancestral home may not seem the noblest of ambitions, but it could be my last chance of doing something that will put a stamp on my life. I spent very little time here before going out to America, but it always had a pull for me. Something in the blood and bone perhaps.”

  “I can understand that.” It was true. Merlin’s Court had come down to me through the family. Thumper sat looking empathetic. “But is it worth…?” I gestured awkwardly.

  “Selling myself on a television show?

  “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

  “No?”

  “You’ll be making a bargain.” I was eager to escape the study. “I can see there could be benefits to both concerned, but it just seems a rather sad arrangement to me. Luckily, six women, including Mrs. Malloy, don’t see it that way. But if you find yourself uncertain, why not at least postpone the filming? You’ve good reason surely after what happened to Suzanne Varney.”

  Lord Belfrey’s expression darkened, as Carson Grant’s had done on so many occasions when dealing with the sorrows of Wisteria Whitworth’s incarceration at Perdition Hall. “I’d met her… years ago on a Caribbean cruise. We spent the better part of a week together, dining, dancing. I was between marriages at the time. And she was a very attractive, likable woman.”

  I stared at him.

  “Let me show you, Ellie.” He stepped sideways, beckoning me forward. Accompanied by the faithful Thumper, I joined him at the desk. Scattered across it were a series of eight-by-ten photos displaying the faces of women. His hand went to one in the middle. “This is Suzanne.”

  “As you say” (and so had Tommy) “she is… was… very attractive.”

  “The applicants were all instructed to submit a photo of this size. They went to Georges. I told him that I wasn’t interested in seeing them, that I didn’t wish to be influenced by looks one way or the other. The selections were up to him, based on the personality criteria we had agreed upon. When he arrived at Mucklesfeld, he took over this room. Yesterday afternoon I came in and saw these,” waving a hand over the photos, “and recognized Suzanne despite not having thought of her in years. I told Georges at once.”

  “Was it specified on the application form that the contestants must have no prior acquaintance with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps Suzanne didn’t connect you with the man she had met on the cruise.”

  The line of his mouth was bitter. “I wasn’t traveling under an assumed name.”

  “But you weren’t Lord Belfrey at the time.” Looking at her face, I decided it was etched with sorrow and felt a reluctance to believe she had broken the r
ules intentionally. “What did Georges say?”

  “That the situation could be put to dramatic use. Either on Suzanne’s arrival or further down the road.”

  “The other contestants would have a right to be upset.”

  “Especially as Georges had made his selections based on an interlocking connection between them. Her death is going to come as a shock to the ones who knew her.”

  I thought of Livonia and Judy. “Does it have to come out now that you and Suzanne knew each other? Even Georges must see there’s no point in setting that cat among the pigeons.” I looked studiedly at my watch. “And now I really must get out of here. Thumper’s owners must be getting dreadfully worried about him. I’ll need to find some sort of lead…”

  “Take this,” he began unknotting his tie, and to my embarrassment I felt my face flush. Ridiculous to feel that something so ordinary implied an intimacy between us. “Why don’t you stop at Witch Haven, home of my late cousin Giles’s daughter Celia, and inquire there about him, if you can get the door opened to you? I haven’t been allowed in and neither has she come here since the day she demanded that I hand over Eleanor Belfrey’s portrait, saying Giles had given it to her because she admired the artist, if not the subject.” He handed me the tie and I took it wordlessly. “If you do get inside Witch Haven, you might get to see the portrait and discover whether or not I am exaggerating your resemblance to Eleanor.”

  “Am I right in thinking you didn’t know her?”

  “Giles was never welcoming of family visits.” His lordship turned his back on the desk and the spread-out photos. “Nevertheless, I showed up in defiance of that attitude shortly after their marriage. When the butler grudgingly allowed me into the hall, she was going up the stairs wearing the dress in the portrait, ankle-length and of pale filmy gauze. She must have been sitting for the artist. Halfway up she turned and looked down before going on her way. I stayed until late evening, despite the frequent glares from Giles, and from Celia, who was twenty-three at the time. A couple of years younger than myself. Despite Giles and I being first cousins he would have been fifty or fifty-one at the time. The ages stick in my mind. He was so damnably proud of having snared so young a bride.” Lord Belfrey moved a hand around his shirt collar as if fingering for his tie, looked at what was in my hand, stared for a moment in puzzlement, and then said gently: “Go on, Ellie Haskell, make your getaway with the dog.”