She Shoots to Conquer

Cease this ridiculous wallowing! Thumper is a dog. A very nice one-affectionate, sweet-natured, but unlikely to remember me except as a pleasant sniff or two if we crossed paths in a fortnight. Which wouldn’t happen anyway because within the week I would be back at Merlin’s Court with all who mattered most, Ben and the children and Tobias on my lap. I resolutely ignored the possible absence of Mrs. Malloy. That too-of far greater significance than a black Lab-must be borne if necessary.

I trod purposely on through the high street. When coming up the drive at Mucklesfeld, I saw Lord Belfrey and Judy Nunn standing in front of the broken wall. She appeared particularly diminutive next to his tall figure, but it was clear from her feet-apart stance and energetic gesturing that she was in no way intimidated by him. I saw him nod as if in agreement. To walk behind them to reach one of the back doors into the house seemed inappropriate, particularly when I noticed a long-haired cameraman who on shifting position looked to be the girl named Lucy. It would have to be the front door, I decided.

This meant ringing the bell, sending a rumble of thunder down my spine if not throughout the entire interior. Fortunately, for me if not for him, Mr. Plunket must have been standing with nothing to do within inches of the door. He opened it as if expecting the black-hooded Grim Reaper complete with scythe and logbook… sorry, no death quips after yesterday evening. Stepping aside to allow me to creep around him, he wished me a good afternoon as if announcing that there had been an official statement from Buckingham Palace that the world was to end in twenty minutes, and all who were able should immediately vacate the planet or face a heavy fine. I parted the shadows with my hands and smiled at him through my own sorrow.

“Hello, Mr. Plunket. I see you escaped from the pantry.”

“Pantry?” That could have been him or the mournful echo of my own voice.

“Or whatever cubicle you and Mrs. Foot disappeared into when Monsieur LeBois ordered you out of the kitchen this morning.” I pictured a dark space where tuftless brooms and rank-smelling mops were sent to die. Oh, bother! I was doing it again!

“The artistic temperament. I’m sure he means to be nice.”

I stared at Mr. Plunket and thought: Here is a man who can make allowances for the foibles of others when surely he must know that some-meaning Georges LeBois-spoke of him as Wart Face and others (including myself) harbored equally unkind thoughts. Never again, I vowed, would I notice anything except his devotion to Lord Belfrey, Mrs. Foot, and Boris.

“How did the rest of the morning go?” I asked him.

“Very exciting.” No gleam of enthusiasm accompanied this response. “His nibs met with all the contestants as a group and afterwards with each in turn. Them camera people kept coming from every which way with their equipment, giving orders like they’re the ones owning the place. It’s a wonder his nibs isn’t worn to the bone, but he made sure to pass the time of day when he saw me crawling one of the upstairs passageways calling for Whitey. It turns out he’d escaped from his cage-not his nibs, I don’t mean.”

“I understand.”

“Poor little Whitey! Mrs. Foot and Boris has both been frantic. She broke down in tears after your husband asked for a torch to check something inside the cooker, and the one that’s always wedged under a corner of the sink cupboard to keep it straight wasn’t there. Must have got knocked out and rolled somewhere. Boris and me both knew what was really getting to her. Whitey’s like the child she never had.” Mr. Plunket wiped an eye. “But then she remembered a hole in the wall in that upper passageway and thought perhaps he’d hidden out in there. I thought I heard a squeaking, but it could’ve been wishful thinking.”

“He’ll show up.” I spoke with awful certainty.

Mr. Plunket’s eyes widened. “Are you one of those, Mrs. Halibut…?”

“Haskell.”

He nodded. “One of those with psychotic tendencies?”

It took a second for the penny to drop, at which point I saw no harm in giving him the response he wanted without lying. “I don’t claim to be psychic, but I do have feelings.” The air around us hummed portentously. “My husband calls me a sensitive.” True. Ben said something to this effect every time I presented him with his missing watch or reading glasses.

“Then you think Whitey is all right?” Mr. Plunket’s voice throbbed with hope.

“I’m certain,” I closed my mind to the thought, “that in the very near future he will make a grand reentrance. “Speaking of my husband…”

Mr. Plunket displayed a clairvoyance of his own by finishing my sentence: “… he was in the kitchen less than five minutes ago serving Monsieur LeBois his lunch. Tadpoles in some savory sauce, I think it was. Perhaps, if you won’t mind me saying so,” he stared through me, “it’s the house.”

“What is?” I was struggling to think what Ben could possibly have cooked. It would serve Georges right if it really was something scooped out of an algae-covered pond with a net. Let him stick that in his bouche. Sometimes nastiness is good for the soul, especially when one’s heart is aching for a black Lab.

“Sending you messages about Whitey. And who knows what else.” Suddenly, a shadow overlaid the enthusiasm, succeeded by a look of dread.

“Oh, I wouldn’t think there’ll be anything more! One premonition a day… a week… a month is the most I, a rank amateur, can produce.” I hated to leave him standing there, but my powers were sufficient for me to realize he wanted me gone, preferably from the face of the earth. So I headed for the kitchen.

Did he fear that those supposed powers would produce a meeting between myself and a visitor from beyond the grave? One who would impart information amidst much moaning and shimmering of vapors that Giles Belfrey had murdered his young wife, and then lead me to where Eleanor’s remains had been concealed all these years. His concern of course would be for Lord Belfrey. Perhaps he was unaware that these days it is not considered politically correct to judge people by their relatives. And a good thing, too, considering most of us have ones that would make the devil blush. But his lordship was a stranger to each of his prospective brides, and perhaps only a woman madly in love could be expected not to wonder if there might be a family tendency to do away with wives who forgot to say please when asking to have the butter passed.

I had not expected to be thrilled at the sight of Georges LeBois. But seeing him pulled up in his wheelchair to the kitchen table countered the ache I was feeling. He had a giant-sized serviette (possibly a tea towel) tucked into the neck of his waistcoat, while he chomped down on what I hoped were not tadpoles-however wondrous the savory sauce.

“So you’re back,” not bothering to look up. “Find the owners of that dog you had stitched to your leg?”

“I did. What are you devouring?”

“Baby frog legs in a Champagne reduction. Care to join me in a spoonful?” He flourished a paw, indicating any of the available chairs.

“I’d rather die in the clutches of the Metal Knight.” Seating myself across from him, I watched him close his eyes in ecstasy. “Apparently you are satisfied with my husband’s services as temporary personal chef.”

“Ma cher enfante, I would marry him had you not beaten me to punch.” He raised his lids to survey me sorrowfully. “And do you, naive creature that you appear to be, appreciate his gift to the world? Do you worship at his sauteing pan? Do you so much as know the difference between a flan and a creme caramel?”

I ignored this. “Where is my husband? I hope you haven’t got him locked up in a cellar until he promises never to leave you.”

“Gone to search his lordship’s desk. He needs to check some malfunction inside the cooker and I remembered seeing a red torch in one of the drawers. As a boy I longed for a pair of bicycle clips, a paper punch, and a red torch. Those ambitions, simple as they may sound, shaped my life-drove me to succeed. I do hope our mutual friend won’t be long.” Georges set aside his empty plate with one last, lingering look. “I am aquiver with anticipation to know what he has planned for dessert. A white chocolate mousse Grand Marnier would do very well, although my hopes are set on an old-fashioned bread and butter pudding, with lots of raisins and a thick hot custard on top.”

Either would have suited me down to the ground, but I hardened my heart against any prospect of emotional bonding with the awful man. “What of the peasants?” I asked.

He removed the napkin from his neck and dabbed his lips. “Who?”

“The contestants. Do they get to scuffle around the scraps from your table or have they been assigned kitchen time to prepare their own meals?”