“Then I’ll…”
“Not so fast,” raising an imperious hand. “I’ve said I’m not sure if I’ve seen this dog before. Sit down,” it was an order, “while I think. I abhor being rushed.”
Reluctantly, I seated myself on the sofa facing the one she occupied. “Forester, the old man who works for me, mentioned that the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Spendlow-word has it that she’s an atheist-recently got a dog from Animal Rescue. That’s
“Then not Thumper here.” I started to rise, to be waved back into place.
“I also remember hearing that Mr. Manning from Grange Cottage had a dog, and in his case I believe it was a black Lab.” She had me hooked and knew it. “He died a couple of months ago. Crossed the road in front of a car and got hit.”
“Oh, the poor dear!” I fought down the urge to cover Thumper’s ears. Grimkirk being a small place, the deceased might have been a relative of his.
“Hardly cut down in his prime.”
“Even so…”
“Well into his eighties.”
“Oh!”
Celia Belfrey read my look and grimaced a smile. “You thought I meant the dog. What are you-a member of your own wacky bleeding hearts group? This excessive interest in a stray!” Her insolence froze me in place, as it must have done so many others that she no longer anticipated outrage and was left fully basking in her successes as a verbal slasher. As a girl she had perhaps heard herself described too often as spirited:
“What does Mrs. Spendlow have to do with that?”
“According to Tommy Rowley, who came rushing round to bring the news early this morning, the woman killed was named Suzanne Varning-”
“Varney.”
Celia Belfrey shrugged. “What does it matter, she won’t be using any name from now on. My point about Mrs. Spendlow is that yesterday afternoon, Nora mentioned that a woman had come to the door saying she had managed to get herself lost and asking for directions to the vicarage. She claimed to have made arrangements to spend a few hours with Mrs. Spendlow, an old friend whom she hadn’t seen in years. I told Nora I hoped she’d had sufficient sense to ask the woman’s name… she could have shown up hoping to get into Witch Haven and have a look around. As you can see, everything I have is valuable and women living alone can be easy prey. Yes, I have Forester, but he’s getting doddery. Years ago he would have grabbed that and provided some protection.” She indicated a longbow that I had not previously noticed-perhaps because it melded with the ambience of the room surprisingly well-hanging above a low bookcase.
“The woman was Suzanne Varney?” I experienced a pang of guilt for having wondered if her real reason for coming a day ahead of the other contestants had been to get a head start on the competition.
“So she told Nora, although one might suppose someone going on a television show in hopes of winning a husband might be inclined to use an assumed name. But tell me, how has my cousin Aubrey responded to this spanner thrown in the works?”
Clearly everything else had been a prelude to this question. Those dark eyes and red lips were eager to absorb any description I could provide of Lord Belfrey dropping his handsome face into his hands when the realization sunk in that his scheme for saving Mucklesfeld might be doomed by the loss of a contestant. Tommy Rowley must not have provided enough succulent details, either out of loyalty to his lordship or because he was a man and typically incapable of bringing the scene to life:
“I’m a stranger,” I said tightly, “and as such, not in his confidence. Do you know what became of Mr. Manning’s dog?”
“I imagine it was put down. Who wants somebody else’s pet, except of course for my stepmother when taking Father’s Scottie for spite.” A thin-smiled pause. “How is Aubrey’s so-called household staff reacting to the excitement? Did you know he found those three zombies squatting at Mucklesfeld when he moved in?”
“They are clearly devoted to him.”
“Don’t be pettish.” She sat further back on her sofa, settling in for the beans I would inevitably spill. “It’s a wonder one of them hasn’t murdered him in his bed for his wristwatch. As if one couldn’t tell just from looking at them, the word is they all have unsavory pasts. But enough of Wart Face and the other duo. Is the ludicrously named
“I can’t say.”
The black eyes narrowed. “Are they all every bit as vulgar as might be anticipated?”
“I’m not up on vulgarity. As my parents used to say-better to leave that to the experts.” Getting to my feet, I felt I had finally scored a point, but Celia Belfrey was focused solely on the long-bow, which would I felt sure have come from Mucklesfeld, along with every piece of furniture worth grabbing with her greedy hands.
“Why don’t you suggest to my cousin Aubrey,” she said with husky relish, “that if he wants to instill some excitement into what promises to be a very dull television show, he should have the contestants engage in an archery contest. In my father and grandfather’s time-perhaps even further back than that-one was held every year in commemoration of the legend that William Rufus went boar-hunting in the area with one of our Norman ancestors. If it would be helpful,” she smoothed a hand down the knee of her skirt, before returning her eyes to mine, “I could send Forester to provide instructions. He taught me archery as a girl. And what an opportunity for these women to learn something new!”
Oh, my goodness! I thought. The vile woman is hoping one of the contestants will get shot. That there might even be a second death! She hates Lord Belfrey because he has Mucklesfeld-which even in its ruined state represents her place as daughter of the manor.
Suddenly, the loveliness of the room ebbed into dusk. The reasonable explanation was that the sun had moved behind the clouds, but I blamed the fading colors and the emergence of a dank odor on the evil flowing out of Celia Belfrey. I got out of the room with the speed of an arrow shot from that longbow, pulling Thumper along with me. Nora Burton stood at the foot of the stairs. I had the presence of mind to remember the note from Mrs. Malloy to Mrs. Spuds, and ask how to get to Tommy Rowley’s house, before making a dash out the front door and down the steps.
It was still raining in halfhearted fashion, but Thumper did not seem bothered and the walk would be a short one. From Nora Burton’s description, which even mentioned the weeping willow in the garden, it had to be the cottage-style house we had passed on our way to Witch Haven. I didn’t want to think about Celia Belfrey until time veiled the memory of those eyes and that voice, and I could persuade myself that I had overreacted. Instead, I concentrated on wondering about the woman behind the horn-rimmed glasses. How could she bear to stay at Witch Haven? My mind nudged toward something she had said-obviously nothing striking or I would have remembered- something that niggled afterward around the edges of my mind. Something to do with Georges LeBois and Lord Belfrey… I almost had it. Then it was gone.
The overspreading boughs of the avenue shed green droplets that turned iridescent on the ground, shadows brindled Thumper’s black fur, and again I determinedly shifted my thoughts to wondering about Suzanne Varney’s friendship with the vicar’s wife. Had the authorities sought information from Mrs. Spendlow? Livonia had said she knew Suzanne only as an acquaintance, but Judy Nunn might know about family members and others she had left behind. Perhaps as sad was the thought of no one sufficiently close to mourn her passing. It was the rain-making me think of tears. I forced myself to step out more briskly as I left the trees for the narrower lane, which soon brought Tommy’s house into view, along with another thought about Suzanne’s visit to Mrs. Spendlow.
Had she wanted to confide in an old friend-and one likely to know his lordship-that contrary to the rules for
