She Shoots to Conquer

by Dorothy Cannell

  I didn’t offer my view on this. There were some things I did recognize were none of my business. “What finally brought you back?”

  “Two things coincided. One of those friends who had helped me start over told me about seeing Celia’s advert in The Times for a companion cum secretary, and that same week I read an article in another newspaper about Aubrey’s reality show and the practical reasons for it. It came to me that if Celia had held on to the jewels, which according to the grapevine had never come on the market, then perhaps she had hidden them either at Mucklesfeld or more likely here at Witch Haven. In the article about Aubrey, it said he’d been married and divorced twice, and now he was being forced into what seemed likely to be a third mistake. And I, who have come to think of myself as the least romantic of people, found myself wondering if he wasn’t in need of someone galloping to his rescue at the twelfth hour. Recovering those jewels should enable him to raise enough to get going on repairs and otherwise putting Mucklesfeld back together.”

  I liked the sound of that. “No luck so far? Not so much as the shimmer of a diamond or the glow of a ruby through a crack in the floorboards?”

  She shook her head. “This house has its share of secret spaces behind the paneling and beneath hidden trap doors; not as many as Mucklesfeld, but enough to have kept me searching at night and every other spare minute I have. I’m beginning to think wherever the jewels are, it’s not here. Or at Mucklesfeld. I’ve made a few predawn flits over there…”

  “That explains Lord Belfrey’s household staff claiming to have seen Eleanor Belfrey’s ghost leaving the premises by way of an exterior door. Were you minus the disguising glasses on those occasions?”

  “I believe so.”

  “With your hair down and a dark cloak flowing from your shoulders.”

  She actually laughed. “Yes, to the first, and wearing my old nurse’s cape.”

  “They were all familiar with your portrait.”

  “Celia needed to be able look at it day in and day out and gloat. I was sure it would be the same with the jewels-that they had to be where she could feast her eyes and her malice upon them whenever the urge seized her. But I’m beginning to think she may have been afraid to risk their discovery, however cunning the hiding place.”

  “Whether they’re here or not,” I leaned urgently forward, “you’re taking a terrible risk. If she is as crazed as she sounds and she figures out that Nora Burton is Eleanor Belfrey, she may make sure you don’t escape her a second time.”

  “I have to keep looking… at least a little while longer.”

  “In the hope of saving Lord Belfrey from a potentially disastrous marriage? Eleanor, he would be appalled if he got wind of the risk you’re taking.”

  “You won’t tell him?”

  I hesitated. “If you were doing this to reestablish your reputation and reclaim your old life, that would be one thing, but to walk into the lion’s den out of a quixotic notion of female gallantry is an unnecessary sacrifice.”

  “What difference does my motive make?”

  Unanswerable. Especially as I was pretty certain that in her situation I might well have felt compelled to pursue the same course of action. “No, I won’t tell him. But forget the jewels and leave here now.”

  “Soon.”

  “Promise you’ll be careful!”

  Ten minutes later, walking back to Mucklesfeld, I mulled over Eleanor’s assessment that Celia Belfrey’s venom was so focused on the portrait that she couldn’t see that the living woman was often in the same room where it was displayed. That might be so; hatred can shift and shape to its own design, blocking out what might otherwise be apparent. Celia might never guess that her enemy was looking at her with living eyes. Then again, something might at any moment bring the truth home to her. And then what? Eleanor might have exaggerated the threat the other woman had posed years ago. Most people, however nasty, will shrink from committing murder. But Celia? I remembered her cruel face and cringed. If only I had not made that promise not to tell Lord Belfrey that Eleanor had come back.

  The ideal person with whom to discuss this predicament would of course have been Mrs. Malloy. An impossibility. The reason I had not wanted her to come to Witch Haven with me-knowing I was going to confront Nora Burton-was that as a contestant she could not be party to information that could well and truly disrupt the production of Here Comes the Bride. I would not only be dropping a turnip in her applecart but also putting her in the position of knowing something her fellow hopefuls didn’t. The same would be true for Ben, who might feel under sufficient obligation to Georges LeBois to lay the facts before him. When it came down to it, I thought sadly, the only one I could have confided in with complete ease of mind was Thumper. He would have listened, assured me with his adoring gaze that he fully sympathized with my conflict, and felt no obligation to bark out the story to anyone.

  In the hall at Mucklesfeld I met Lucy, the dingy blond female member of the crew with the dragon tatoos on her arms. She wasn’t carrying any equipment, and said she had grabbed at a free moment to go to the loo, from which she was now returning.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  She leaned against one of the larger pieces of furniture. “Hell if I know! We got the contestants’ organizational meeting without too many retakes, which is something, I suppose. No idea if Georges was happy or not, he’s just as snarly if he’s satisfied or isn’t.”

  “I’m not clear about the structure.”

  “As in?” Sticking a hand into her ragged jeans pocket, Lucy drew out a silver-wrapped stick of gum.

  “The competition. I mean… what’s the game plan?”

  “Sure. I get you. As you’ll know, Lord Belfrey had a formal meeting with each of the contestants yesterday-not much editing of those. Georges wanted all the throat-clearing and twitchy stares kept in. Today and for the duration the women will be assigned individual fifteen-minute interviews. Those will be well weeded, to bring each personality into the sharpest possible focus. I,” she tucked the gum in her mouth and tossed away the wrapper, “will be doing the questioning off camera. Georges decided a female voice would be more effective in getting them to reveal more than intended. Keeping the viewers coming back for more means playing into the mentality of the kinds of people who used to pack up a picnic and look for a nice grassy spot to watch the beheading. The more blood and tears the merrier, then and now.” Lucy stood chewing her gum. “More often than not, the most revealing stuff comes from trailing around after a subject when they think they’re not doing anything worth recording-and most of the time they’re right. Eventually, they stop noticing the camera and even the person holding it becomes invisible. At least that’s the hope. We also aim for those candid moments between his lordship and one or other of the contestants-walking in the garden, taking a look at one of the rooms, conversing over a cup of tea.”

  “And he will come to his decision how?”

  Lucy shrugged. “From watching the interviews and other film. That’s the system as explained at the start of the first episode, but in reality,” curling her tongue around the word, “it’s bound to come down to the one he can best see himself stuck with for life… or at least as long as it takes to get a divorce.”

  “Was Georges pleased with the mayhem produced by Lady Annabel showing up in the gallery?”

  “Who knows?”

  “I thought it was a bit lame. He could at least have had her head fall off so she could tuck it under her arm and go bowling. It was only Whitey showing up that succeeded in creating a sufficient panic to drive off Wanda Smiley. How many more does he hope to scare away? I’d have thought a little attrition goes a long way.”

  “Right.” Lucy reached into her pocket again, drew out a packet of cigarettes, turned it over a few times, and put it back. “The idea is to dangle the question as to who may be next at a point when hopefully the viewers are beginning to root for particular contestants. The next person to talk about bolting will be invited
to sit down with his lordship and talk out her concerns. His obligation-even if he’s already decided against her being the pick of the litter-will be to persuade her to stay.”

  “It sounds so ruthless.”

  “Has to be; that’s the reality show for you,” chewing energetically on the gum. “Sounds as though you’ve never watched even the first five minutes of one?”

  “When it comes to a wedding story, I prefer fiction.”

  Lucy eyed me in surprise. “That’s what the reality show is-life turned on its head so there’s no longer anything real about it. Wanda Smiley being the one to leave is what took me by surprise. I’d have bet on either Livonia Mayberry or Molly Duggan, who seemed like two timid little birds of a feather.”

  “I like Livonia. And there may be more to Molly than meets the eye.” Having established myself as a sanctimonious prig, I addressed another issue. “What I don’t understand is why Georges wanted me in the library for his ghost scene. He spun me a line about my using my interior design background to draw out the contestants’ views on refurbishing Mucklesfeld, but on reflection it seems a bit feeble.”

  “Don’t take offense, but you are a dewy-eyed innocent, aren’t you?”

  Preferable perhaps to being too old to be scruffily attractive, but I had no idea as to her point. “Spell it out for me.”

  “Okay, but I’d have thought it was obvious. The great Georges isn’t one to batten down his hopes, however remote, of a twist to the plot that’ll strike real gold. Look,” Lucy again explored her jeans pocket, but this time did not produce the packet of cigarettes, “the entire crew knows Lord Belfrey was knocked for six on first setting eyes on you-that you’re the spitting image of some young woman in a family portrait that he’s been yearning after like a soppy schoolboy for years.”

  “So?” The furniture seemed to be crowding in for a listen.

  “You do want it printed out in big letters, don’t you?” Lucy eyed me with, if there is such a thing, amiable contempt. “Could Georges write the script, honey, it would be bad luck for the contestants and for you the lovely moment when his lordship gets down on one knee and offers you his hand, his heart, and this god-awful house. Of course, you’ll probably have to wait for the engagement ring until the money starts pouring in from the proceeds of the show…”

  “But I’m married!” I was too astounded to fume.

  “Georges would consider that kind of thinking bourgeois.”

  “I also have three children!”

  A shrug, followed by more probing of the jeans pocket.

  “And a cat!” Somehow I felt that if I could have added, And a dog, it would have clinched matters.

  “Look,” said Lucy with impatient kindness, “I understand the suburban mind-set. But Georges is more narrow in his thinking. He’s only capable of taking the broad view when surveying a banquet table.”

  “That’s another thing!” I leaped on the thought. “He seemed to like my husband. Or at least his cooking. Surely even he couldn’t be as treacherous as you suggest.”

  Lucy’s look informed me I was a poor, deluded nitwit. Even worse, she patted my arm before saying that if she didn’t go outside and have a ciggy, she’d go into terminal withdrawal. I watched her negotiate her way through the obstacle course to the front door. Even from the rear, she had that air of negligent sophistication that makes an asset of unwashed dishwater-blond hair and torn jeans, leaving me feeling frumpish, over-washed, and utterly incapable of rushing after her to administer a sermon on the evils of smoking.

  I was determined not to participate in any more of Georges’s staged events. Not difficult, on the face of it. But what if Ben wanted to know why I was being obstructive? Would I dash his chance of the publicity for Abigail’s, should Here Comes the Bride make it to the small screen? Would he suspect Lord Belfrey of complicity and whack him over the head with a rolling pin? I yearned to discuss this with Mrs. Malloy, but that was out for the same reason I couldn’t tell her that Nora Burton was Eleanor Belfrey. To put a spoke in her wheel, or for that matter any of the other contestants’, would risk destroying a dream that might raise a mundane life to glorious heights. And then there was Lord Belfrey himself, who had charted his course and was entitled to sail toward the horizon without my sticking my paddleboat in the way. Oh, to have had the ever discreet Thumper as a confidant!

  I decided to go into the library, mount the steps to the portrait gallery, and search out the entrance through which the sweetshop lady had emerged to play Lady Annabel’s ghost. Opening the door into what was likely the handsomest room in Mucklesfeld, with its remnants of polish on the vast oak floor and wainscoting along with the blessedly limited furnishings, I thought myself alone until mounting the final step of the short, railed stairway, where I beheld Lord Belfrey seated on one of a pair of leather chairs at the far end of the parquet from Lady Annabel’s portrait. He rose instantly on catching sight of me. I was struck again by how his most ordinary movement exuded gallantry. He would, I thought, look heroic putting a box of corn flakes in his shopping cart.

  Damn Georges! The embarrassment that seized me was entirely his fault. Any woman who wasn’t preoccupied by being tied to the stake with flames licking at her brand-new shoes would feel a quiver of response at his lordship’s intent, dark-eyed gaze and that smile… so warmly welcoming, even when touched by a suggestion of nobly repressed sorrow.

  “You’ve caught me,” a rueful lift of the mouth and eyebrows.

  “Doing what?” I stood as Lot’s wife must have done when feeling herself turning into a pillar of salt.

  “Skulking.”

  “Oh!”

  “Escaping the infernal cameras, tripping over cords, blundering into seating that has just been positioned for a scene. Care to join me in my hideaway?” He extended a hand and at my nod drew back to the chairs. I took the closer, he the one he’d just occupied. “It’s not the contestants I’m avoiding.” His voice deepened with intensity. “They all seem very pleasant women.” Was it me he wanted to convince or was he attempting to blot out an inner voice that was telling him he was making the mistake of his life? Backing out now might cause enormous hurt to the five hopeful females. Ticking Georges off would also be an issue, but not likely, I felt, to weigh with him to anywhere near the same extent.

  “One contestant” (I had almost said Another) “down.” I was glad to hear my voice sounding conversational. “Poor Wanda Smiley. She wasn’t smiling as she threw her clothes into a suitcase before bunking off.” Catching the drawn look on his face, I said hastily that he shouldn’t upset himself about that. “They all know that the nasty surprise is a feature of the reality show to pick up the pace now and then. No one’s going to tune in just to watch the contestants having races doing the washing up.”

  “I can’t blame Georges if I’ve grown squeamish.” His lordship stared bleakly across the railing. “He warned me, even whilst remaining vague, that he had some startling tricks up his sleeve. Perhaps but for Suzanne Varney’s death I wouldn’t have these qualms. Could take it all in my stride… believe as I did at the beginning that the outcome could benefit not only myself but another.”

  Sadly, I stifled the urge to protest that a loveless marriage, whatever the practical advantages, was not a cheery-sounding arrangement. Even harder to squash was the temptation to spill the beans that the woman who had held his heart captive these many years was presently installed at Witch Haven. To which I would have added the opinion that if swept into his impassioned embrace, she would not long remain impervious to his admiration. How cruel a fate should he happen upon her in the high street as a newly married man unable to offer her his hand except to unburden her of a shopping basket filled with delicacies to tempt his cousin Celia’s peevish appetite! Perhaps there would be a way I could ultimately bring the two of them together, but for now I swallowed the bitter pill of honorable silence. Such thoughts pushed my plan to discover Lady Annabel’s means of entering the gallery out of my mind.

&nb
sp; “I spoke with the vicar’s wife after church this morning,” I said with a nicely casual touch.

  “Normally I would have been there, but with all the curiosity that’s bound to have arisen over what has been happening here, I opted out today.” For the first time I caught a look of his cousin Tom in his lordship’s boyishly apologetic gaze.

  “Completely understandable.” Awful to cause the beleaguered man a moment’s discomfort, but I was about to put my foot in it further. “Your cousin Celia mentioned yesterday, when I went to her house to see if she might know who… the dog belonged to, that Mrs. Spendlow was the person Suzanne intended to visit before coming on to Mucklesfeld.”

  “And did they meet?” There was nothing guarded about his interest.

  “Yes. They were old friends who hadn’t met in years. Apparently, Suzanne had something on her mind that she had kept to herself for some time, but for some reason felt Mrs. Spendlow would be the right confidante. Unfortunately, their time together was interrupted before she got to the heart of the matter. All Mrs. Spendlow was able to say was that Suzanne was dealing with a great deal of anger.”

  “No idea what or who was the cause?” Now he did look and sound somewhat troubled.

  I shook my head. “But if bracing herself to talk about whatever happened brought some of that anger to the surface, perhaps Suzanne wasn’t at her best when handling the car at the time of the accident. On any other occasion she might have been just that bit more alert…” My voice wobbled to a halt and his lordship touched my hand. All very discreet, but something connected between us, a mingling of intense emotion. We were talking about a woman-still quite young-who had died.

  “Poor Suzanne,” he murmured deeply. “I remember her as very likable. And Judy Nunn speaks fondly of her. Livonia Mayberry also knew her, though rather less well. Perhaps they might have an idea what was on her mind.”

  “Not if Mrs. Spendlow is correct in her understanding that she was to be the first in whom Suzanne confided.”