to each other in the competition. What are the odds of that happening by chance, if we suppose there were dozens, possibly hundreds of applicants?”
Livonia shivered. “Not strangers then… but people who are in some way woven together being set against each other. It sounds diabolical, doesn’t it?”
“Or a shrewd move in grabbing the viewers’ interest. In the case of
“Oh, I see! I see!” Her eyes now widened in horror. “Who could it be? But wait!” She held up a trembling hand. “Unlike Judy and Suzanne, I never told anyone except for Harold what I was planning… certainly not any of the girls at the bank. And Harold wouldn’t have spread it around, would he?”
“Mrs. Knox,” I reminded her.
“Yes, of course! I’d forgotten! I did tell her, but she’s not looking for a husband. She’s got one already. Oh, she wouldn’t have said anything to anyone. It would have been so unkind! But if she did… and we call the person she told Contestant Number Four… then Four would have told Five and Five would have told Six.”
“That’s my assumption, Livonia,” I was saying, and getting a look from Thumper that declared whatever I thought was bound to be right, when the front door creaked mightily before groaning inward, bringing the not unwelcome sight of Dr. Rowley. The tablets he had given me had certainly put paid to my headache and allowed me to get a few hours of sleep.
“Hello.” I smiled while heading toward him with Thumper displaying a welcome in his springing steps and Livonia half hiding behind me. “I hoped I would have the chance to tell you that I am completely recovered.”
“What great news!” He beamed his schoolboy smile on me. “Nothing could be nicer to hear after last night’s tragedy.” The radiant cheer vanished and his voice sank in sorrow. “I have just been down in the ravine laying a bunch of flowers from my garden at the place where it happened. So young a life cut short. I was in shock afterwards and it wasn’t until I woke this morning that the full awfulness hit me! For the first time in years, I felt an overwhelming need for my old cat Blackie. Nothing like sitting with a cat on one’s lap to make the world seem a better, kinder place.” He reached into the pocket of the tweed jacket that fitted snuggly around his tummy and drew out a handkerchief, which he scrunched into a ball and rolled around in his hands. I pictured him doing the same as a stout, round-faced schoolboy endeavoring to appear manly when battling the urge to tear up.
I was wondering what I could say to him when I felt Livonia shift around me and heard her say with markedly less alarm than when she had made the assumption with Mr. Plunket, Boris, and Georges: “Lord Belfrey?”
“His cousin, Dr. Rowley,” I explained.
“Oh, I see!” She continued moving forward until well out in front of me.
Tommy stepped sideways, stumbling to a halt when fully face-to-face with her.
“I’m Livonia Mayberry.”
Why hadn’t I noticed what a sweet voice she had? I waited for her to add that she was one of the contestants, but naturally she would assume he had already guessed.
“Tommy Rowley. I live in the village.”
“Do you really?”
“Just a walk away.”
“So close!”
“Mine isn’t a large house, but it suits my needs. Or would do completely,” Tommy returned the handkerchief with much fumbling to his jacket pocket, “if I could come home to someone… a cat… yes, a sweet-faced cat, waiting for me curled up in the armchair by the fireplace, with the lamplight shining on her glossy dark hair… I mean fur.”
“You mentioned Blackie.” Livonia cut down the distance between them by a couple of footsteps. “That sounds like a male sort of name to my ears, but then,” she was blushing rosily, “it’s so easy for me to be wrong about… everything really.”
“Not in this case, Miss Mayberry.” Tommy’s voice took on a deeper timbre, “Blackie was a boy until his little operation-which we both regretted but I thought necessary.”
“Perhaps next time a female would make a nice change.”
“Indeed it would!” The round eyed, round cheeked schoolboy face under the thinning hair shone with enthusiasm.
There followed one of those silences that tend to become a little overwhelming. To break it-because Thumper looked a little anxious-I blurted out: “Dr. Rowley, Livonia knew Suzanne Varney.” I knew at once that I had cruelly broken the spell cast by two people having what passed for a normal conversation at Mucklesfeld. Oh, to have stepped on my merciless tongue!
The roses faded from Livonia’s cheeks. “And I haven’t been thinking about her near enough.” She twisted her hands together in the familiar way. “It’s been all about me since I got here, hasn’t it? Harold was right in saying I’m completely selfish.” Tommy reached out a hand to her, but she backed away. I saw out of the corner of my eye a silvery glint, and heard, if they did not, a soft whirring… followed by the ominous creaking of metal arms rising stiffly to extend forward in preparation for closing around an unwary throat. Somehow I managed a warning yelp, which was echoed by Thumper; Livonia turned, perceived her peril, and stood frozen for the half second that it took Tommy to swoop her to safety. The metal arms lowered with a disappointed grinding sound as his closed around her.
“I meant to warn you, Livonia,” I apologized.
“How did it come alive?” Her voice was muffled, due to her face being pressed against Tommy’s.
“Georges LeBois’s dictates! Boris’s handiwork! A test of nerves for the contestants. According to the great man, there will be other fun and games.” I expected Livonia to return to the theme of leaving Mucklesfeld without delay, but she was silent while remaining within the circle of Tommy’s arms. It was an agitated squeaking (not her voice) that rent the air. My initial thought was that the Metal Knight was still readjusting its parts. But then came the scurrying… the flash of white bringing Thumper vehemently to life. What had been a mild-mannered gentleman of a dog became a bristling, springing, madly yipping and hollering wild animal. Across the hall he dashed in hot pursuit of… the ultimate fast food.
“Whitey!” I yelled in Livonia and Tommy’s direction, before making my dash toward the staircase where the excitement was headed.
“It was Blackie, remember?” His voice floated my way.
No point in pausing to explain. I doubted Tommy would have heard me; he was fully occupied in shielding Livonia from the cruel world outside his arms. Stupid me, far better for her not to know that Mrs. Foot’s beloved rat had escaped incarceration. Speeding up the stairs in Thumper’s wake, I ordered him pantingly to stop. For once my word was not law and I reached the banister-railed gallery to see him spin in a circle-much as Georges did in his wheelchair-before diving left through an archway.
Why did I not leave him to do his worst when I have an absolute horror, bordering on pathological terror, of mice, let alone rats? The immediate answer was that it would be reprehensible for me to allow a dog for which I now felt responsible to go hounding through the house. Lord Belfrey deserved better from me, as did his staff. A second truth was that much as I loathed the very idea of Whitey, I would have considered myself wicked beyond belief if I had not made the attempt to save him from imminent death. This would have been the case whether or not he was Mrs. Foot’s beloved pet and, therefore, also important to Mr. Plunket and Boris. It was a matter of unwished-for principle and I was stuck with it.
“Thumper!” I bawled, on catching sight of his tail disappearing around yet another corner. “Stop this minute! Weren’t you ever told to pick on animals your own size! Bad boy! Okay, good boy!” Plowing up a skinny, twisting staircase that had appeared to my right, I continued to rant between puffs, but to no avail, as he was now racing down another, particularly dusky passageway. Perhaps a change of tone would work better. “Thumper-or whatever your real name is-come! Come to Ellie, there’s a dear! We’ll go and look for some nice bones without life attached to them!” He turned so abruptly that I collided with a door left standing open. I could not have seen well enough to read his expression even had I not been grabbing my shin, but I sensed his hesitation… a dog torn between duty born of affection and the call of the wild according to Jack London. A vile squeak settled the matter. Thumper plunged through the doorway, with me staggering behind.
This passageway was wider and better lit due to a couple of windows. Ahead of us, Whitey was groveling at desperate speed along the skirting board, until the revolting tip of his hairless tail disappeared after the rest of him
