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
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 Doris 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 cafe 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.
