She Shoots to Conquer

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Gamely. We ended up in a cellar, but it didn’t take us long to discover the way out.”

  “Mrs. Malloy still reveling in the hope of becoming the next Lady Belfrey?”

  “I’m not so sure,” I smoothed a hand over the bedspread, “but I certainly haven’t said anything to discourage her.”

  “That would be unsporting, sweetheart.” Was there a hint of sarcasm in his voice? “Not just a lord, but a king among men. You don’t, I gather, hold the nature of these challenges against him?”

  “How can anyone? The women must all have had some idea of what they were getting into. If there weren’t anything to be endured, it wouldn’t be the kind of show anyone would watch on television. And if Georges is inclined to go overboard at times, that’s on him.”

  “Shouldn’t his lordship insist on knowing exactly what is going on?” Ben swung his legs off the side of the bed and stood looking down at me with that appraising look that he normally reserves for the children when suspecting they aren’t facing up to facts.

  “Oh, I know what’s getting to you,” I said crossly. “You’ve got this bee in your bonnet that Lord Belfrey has a thing for me, and like any fool of a woman I’m incapable of not being ridiculously flattered. Well, it is good to know that he likes me-he’s nice and any bright spot is welcome at Mucklesfeld-but what he and I were talking about outside the library was Molly Duggan’s dancing. Ballet. She’d crept in, turned on Tchaikovsky, and morphed into a swan. Oh, I know,” interpreting his blank expression, “that no one would guess from looking at her. That’s swans for you-exquisitely graceful on water, and disappointingly waddly on land. Not that Molly waddles, but she is ordinary, even frumpy, just like the poor little ugly duckling.”

  “Are you saying,” Ben sounded both surprised and interested, “that’s she good at all that leaping, twirling on tiptoe stuff?”

  “I don’t know enough to tell if she’s an Anna Pavlova or a Margot Fonteyn, but she certainly blew me and Lord Belfrey away. I’d gone into the library to look for the entrance onto the gallery used by Lady Annabel, and he was there…” I got no further because Mrs. Malloy came in and gave Ben a look that suggested he make himself scarce. She plunked herself down on the bed, forcing me to shift to the edge.

  “They’re few and far between, but thank God some men can take a hint,” she observed morosely after Ben had shot out the door. “And don’t you go spoiling this little visit, Mrs. H, by harping on about me going off on Judy Nunn.”

  “I’ve no intention of doing any such thing,” I said. “The fact that your feet were aching afterwards was a clear sign of remorse, considering you’ve so often told me you’ve been wearing high heels since you were two. Obviously you’ve got it in for her because you’re convinced she’s going to be Lord Belfrey’s choice…”

  “That’s not it,” a sigh ruffled the bedclothes, “although I don’t think I’m the only one as thinks she’ll be picked.”

  “Then why? She seems such a nice woman.”

  “That’s it in a nutshell, I suppose, Mrs. H. She’s one of them sort as never has to bother about what she’s wearing, or if she has her eyebrows on or off, because nobody else cares neither; she’s just Judy as seems to suit everybody down to the ground. Makes me feel kind of inferior, and that don’t happen often on account of me having been three times chairwoman of the Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association. ’Course I’m not saying she does it on purpose, but right from the first I got me back up.”

  “Get over it,” I retorted the more firmly because, despite my liking for Judy, I empathized. “I’ve been in that boat at one time or another and it goes nowhere. Besides, if his lordship gets wind that you’re picking on her, you’re likely to dish your chances.”

  A pause, causing me to wonder if she had nodded off to sleep.

  “That’s another thing bothering me, Mrs. H. At first you could say I was in a dream, picturing meself Lady Belfrey, but like I got to thinking in church this morning, call it a sacred revelation if you like, what’s lovely in books don’t have quite the same thrill in the day to day. A husband’s a husband whatever way you slice him-wanting to know where his socks are when they’re right there on his feet, or stuck in bed with lumbago, banging on the table if you don’t fly up the stairs the moment he wants helping to the loo! And then,” a hesitation suggesting we were getting to the crux of the matter, “it’s not like Lord Belfrey will worship the ground I tread on like Carson Grant did with Wisteria Whitworth. To be picked because I’m good at flapping round with a feather duster won’t have me floating on air, however handsome he is. And anyway,” disgruntled stare, “what woman needs a man as would have you wanting to pick up the nearest knife and give yourself a face-lift when he comes sashaying into the bedroom in his silk pajamas?”

  “You underrate your mature charms,” I was saying when the door opened and in came Livonia, clearly eager to talk about the afternoon’s events although displaying an awkwardness in Mrs. Malloy’s presence.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to ask you, Ellie, what you thought of this afternoon’s escapade? Wasn’t the skeleton awful? So… so disrespectful to the poor creature. I wonder where Georges got it?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him if it was his own mother.” Mrs. Malloy got off the bed; as she often says-usually when it’s time for the washing up-she knows when she’s not wanted, “Or his father, for that matter. Looked like a man in drag to me; my third husband had that same silly grin when I’d catch him in one of me best frocks. And them teeth! Women always do a better job brushing!”

  I was glad of her interruption. Certainly I wasn’t going to tell Livonia who I believed to be the source of poor Nellie or Ned. But something in my look must have given me away, because the moment Mrs. Malloy went out the door, Livonia sank down on the bed to stare up at me in wide blue-eyed distress.

  “Oh, not Tommy-Dr. Rowley, I should say-surely he wouldn’t allow Georges to make such a cruel mockery of…”

  “Calm down.” I sat beside her. “If it was his skeleton, I’m sure he never dreamed she’d be put in that dress, which is what made it all vicious.”

  “But he seems so very sensitive. So noble… in the sweetest way. When I was telling him on the walk back from church this morning about Daddy’s final days at Shady Oaks, he said he had worked there for a couple of weeks one summer filling in for a colleague, giving up his own holiday to do so. Isn’t that an amazing coincidence? He wanted to know what I thought of the care provided and… well, he was just so kind.”

  “Which is why you shouldn’t be bothering your head about that skeleton. By the way, did you ever talk to Suzanne about her father’s treatment at Shady Oaks?”

  “I expect so. When we met there, our dads were our only connection. But I don’t remember anything specific. That day in London she said she’d taken her dad’s death hard and changed the subject. She was the type uninclined to give much of herself away.”

  “That’s what Mrs. Spendlow, the vicar’s wife, said, although if they hadn’t been interrupted she’s sure Suzanne was going to open the floodgates to her.” I explained the relationship. “Did you get the feeling that inside Suzanne might be a very angry person?”

  “No, controlled is how I saw her. Judy, who knew her better-although not close friends-described her as intensely private. She knew nothing about Shady Oaks when I brought it up, or of any personal relationships, with men I mean, only that Suzanne had been briefly married. But she did say she believes Suzanne signed on for Here Comes the Bride to try to escape some haunting sorrow.”

  I doubted Judy had used that exact phrase, but I got the point. Fond as I had grown of Livonia, I was relieved when she went. Lying back down on the bed, my mind shifted, lighting on scraps of remembered this and that, until it became a whirl of conjecture. I suspected that Suzanne Varney’s arrival at Mucklesfeld had placed someone in a most awful dither. But murder? I still tried to tell myself that that was carrying things into the realm of a Dori
s McCrackle novel.

  That evening Ben brought a meal up on a tray, which we shared companionably without saying very much. He did mention that no one had eaten the gateau at lunch, and hoped that was because the meal had been interrupted. Not wishing to put any blame on Mrs. Foot, I assured him that was the case and told him I’d love him to make another; it had looked so delicious, I would dream of it for days if not given the opportunity to sample three or four slices. Telling me I looked tired, he asked if I would be offended if he slept in the bedroom Wanda Smiley had been set to occupy before her abrupt departure. Knowing how claustrophobic he must find the cubbyhole, I said he should enjoy a good night’s rest, returned his kiss, and after he had left with the tray, thought about reading. Instead, I did more thinking, before turning off the light and going out like one myself.

  I awoke the next morning to find some comfort in the offing. Nothing-meaning Georges-was going to persuade me to participate in that afternoon’s archery contest. A half hour later, I informed Mrs. Malloy of this decision on meeting her in the hall. I was wearing my outdoor jacket-the weather having looked sufficiently dull to suggest the possibility of rain-and was going out for a prowl around the village.

  “Well, don’t make a week of it, Mrs. H!” She eyed me through lashes given a furry application of mascara, which brought into lurid play the neon eye shadow, brick red rouge, and purple lipstick. Whatever her despondency of last evening, she had her war paint on today. “You owe it to me to be there to watch, and don’t go denying it. Who got me reading them silly romance novels? And who’s going to cheer me on to a bull’s-eye if you don’t? Won’t be Mr. H, he’ll be inside busy preparing a spread for those as feels like a little something to celebrate the winner. Which I’m not saying will be me, seeing as the Bible says boasters will taste the bitter ashes of despair and wallow in the welter that is the land of Woebegone.”

  Although I can’t claim to be a biblical scholar, this sounded more like Doris McCrackle to me, but I did promise to return to witness the event.

  “However, don’t expect me to stay if you’re wearing a Robin Hood hat and calling people Friar Tuck, Maid Marion, and Little John.”

  “No need to make jokes, Mrs. H!”

  I reminded her that I’m always nastiest at dawn, which to me includes nine in the morning, asked her to tell Ben I would be gone with luck for the entire morning, and set off for Grimkirk. After not much wandering down the high street, I came upon a café with an overtly ye olde worlde exterior that suggested more than prepackaged sandwiches and instant coffee. Over very satisfactory bacon, sausage, fried tomatoes, and cups of tea that helped ease the memory Mrs. Foot’s tepidly nasty brew, I again allowed my thoughts to wander down dark alleys. The only sanguinity I could arrive at was that if Mrs. Malloy and I were alone in our suspicions that Suzanne Varney’s death had been engineered, no immediate danger appeared to loom. I pictured myself marching into the police station and pouring out my concerns to the man or woman at the desk and the winking side glance directed at a cohort.

  I killed-such an unfortunate word under the circumstances-the next half hour wandering in and out of shops, avoiding the sweetshop on principle. On the brink of buying a couple of finger puppets for Abbey and Rose at the Jack and Jill’s, I reached into my jacket pocket for my purse and felt the piece of plastic I had taken from Thumper when he returned from his excursion into the ravine. The memory was so achingly poignant that I left the puppets on the counter and set off in the direction of Tommy Rowley’s house. What harm would there be in asking Mrs. Spuds if she knew how Thumper had settled back with the Dawkinses? Besides, a longer walk would revive the appetite presently sated by the kind of breakfast I ate at home only on weekends. I planned to stop for lunch before my return to Mucklesfeld and a possible attempt at ensnarement by Georges. Turning onto the long drive off the leafy lane, I wondered if Monsieur Malevolent had hoped that yesterday’s challenge would cause one or both of the more timid contestants to follow Wanda Smiley’s example and flee Mucklesfeld. I doubted he could have guessed that the lure of a dance floor for Molly, and Livonia’s burgeoning feelings for Tommy, had enabled them to withstand all he had dragged out of his sleeve thus far.

  I found Tommy prowling around the flowerbeds at the front of the house and explained that although very pleased to see him, it was Mrs. Spuds I had come to see, telling him why.

  “She’s gone down to the butcher’s, always does on a Monday. Talked about lamb chops for dinner, very nicely she does them, too, makes the mint sauce herself, famous for it. But you should see her this afternoon, if that helps; she’s planning on going with me to watch the archery contest. Imagine one being held again at Mucklesfeld after all these years; of course there’s no telling if Giles would have been pleased or not. There was no reading him at all during the last twenty years.” Finally drawing a much-needed breath, he stood staring at me in awkward schoolboy fashion. That he was aware he’d been babbling, I doubted. Some strong emotion had him by the throat, forcing a series of gulps as he now looked pleadingly at me.

  “Miss Mayberry… Livonia… how is she? Last night in bed, I remembered the skeleton I loaned Georges LeBois. I’m afraid I didn’t think much about it at the time, not then being acquainted with any of the contestants. It seemed a harmless enough prank, since I’m given to understand that a show like Here Comes the Bride must have some scary moments; it’s why I never watch that sort of program. But this seemed mild after someone told me they’d watched one where the contestants had to eat slugs and…”

  “That would have been a straight survival show; this one is a mix of romance, if you can call it that, and life’s nitty-gritty.” I studied the weeping willow. “Livonia did seem a little upset at the thought of your lending the skeleton, but I don’t think she will hold it against you if you want to be her… friend.”

  “A friend! Dear Mrs. Haskell, my feelings for her go so much deeper! But would one so lovely…” he went on in this vein at such length that I couldn’t not help wondering how much of his reading was confined to medical journals, but he was a dear man-or I was prepared to assume he was, so I listened, made sympathetic noises, was tempted to pat him on the head and tell him he was a good boy, and tried not to look relieved when he wound down. I didn’t mention lunch for fear he would invite me in and offer me a Marmite sandwich while continuing to wax rhapsodic about Livonia. I could have told him about every quivering breath she took, but a perennial schoolboy had to grow up sometime and do his own finding out.

  Remembering his providing the tablets that had cured my headache, I wished him well before bidding him a firmly motherly goodbye.

  The weather had now turned sufficiently chill to make me glad of my jacket, and thinking that another decent cup of tea would be welcome, I returned to the same café. Shepherd’s pie sounded good and just right for a Monday that had seen said meal served up in many an English household when what was left of Sunday’s joint wasn’t sufficient to be served cold.

  The place was crowded, and I was joined at the table for two by a woman in a pink wooly hat and beige raincoat who proceeded to surround her legs and mine with shopping bags that should have needed six arms to carry them. She very kindly told me the haddock would have been a better choice, and then seemed to feel she owed me her life history, which I would have reveled in at any other time. The son-in-law with the ring through his eyebrow who’d never worked a day since the first kiddy was born, and them all three of them such sweet little things, though it was shame Emma-just four as of last Wednesday-every now and then showed signs of a temper that had to come from her other granny who’d had trouble with all of her neighbors going back years, but of course it did no good saying anything…

  The waitress, rushed off her feet, was a little slow bringing out our meals, so to show her I hadn’t been in any rush, I ordered the treacle tart and coffee, heard about Mrs. Pink Wooly Hat’s other daughter-the one who’d never given a moment’s worry, except that she did keep changing j
obs, and although it couldn’t be said she was living above her means…” Sneaking a look at my watch, I discovered it was a quarter to two, fifteen minutes before the archery contest was due to start. And start on time I knew it would. One of those unpleasant rules of life is that nothing starts late when you hope it will. Also the contestants would be galvanized to punctuality either in the hope of gaining points for themselves or because of a growing team spirit.

  I hoped my hasty departure did not offend my table companion, but it was as I expected on reaching the end of Mucklesfeld’s drive and rounding the rear of the house. Mr. Plunket and Boris were adding a final couple of lawn chairs to a row some yards in front of the ravine. Even now, two chairs were occupied by Mrs. Spendlow and the woman I had sat next to in church. I nodded and smiled but did not go over to them. The contestants were grouped together on the lawn above the terrace near the fountain and a motley assortment of worse for wear statues. Perhaps not all of the contestants; I couldn’t see Judy, although being diminutive she could have been invisible inside the huddle. Georges and the crew were positioned close to the house wall. A sturdy, middle-height elderly man in a jacket and cap moved between the two groups, occasionally extending a hand, palm up, as if testing the wind. There didn’t seem to be much of one, but Charlie Forester-for that’s who he had to be-had in his manner of moving and the tilt of his head the look of an expert on all things nature. I could see the bows and arrows on a table alongside Georges’s wheelchair and the round target on a tree to the forefront of one of several small, unpruned groves.

  Mrs. Foot came out the door by which Judy, Livonia, and I had entered the house on arrival. I heard her asking Georges if he would like a nice cup of tea, only to be rudely ignored. At which moment I heard Mr. Plunket’s voice raised in what sounded like a greeting, and turned to see Celia Belfrey seat herself in queenly fashion, and to my amazement Nora Burton-alias I knew who-take the chair next to her. Before I could finish gaping, Tommy Rowley joined the audience with Mrs. Spuds, who waved at me in friendly fashion.