W hitey, being no simpleton as rodents go, avoided the apparition’s clutches by performing an immediate vanishing act into the mist. Could it be I was the only one who had noticed him? That one shock at a time was more than the rest, including his nearest and dearest, could take in?
“Blimey! It’s none other than Lady Annabel Belfrey,” gasped Mr. Plunket. “The one that got her head sliced off by the guillotine when she was off on her holidays in France.”
“Gone to see her auntie she had, bless her, and now she’s paying us a visit.” Mrs. Foot sounded thoroughly delighted.
“Who wouldn’t die to make your acquaintance, Ma?” Boris’s voice floated above the hubbub. The ghost having created a sufficient stir and perhaps enduring the fright of her afterlife retreated back up the stairs to disappear into a denser confluence of shadow. I could have destroyed the impact of her appearance by stating she was the woman who worked at the sweetshop in the high street, who had hinted broadly that she was hoarding a secret relating to Mucklesfeld. And all so easily achieved, with apparel similar to that in the portrait, access and egress through a hidden panel in the gallery, simulated mist, and camera lights turned off so that an adjustment in eyesight was required prior to adequate refocusing. But much as I might think Georges’s contrivances-the flying cutlery at lunch and now this-foolishly theatrical and seriously distressing to Molly Duggan in particular (from the bleached look of her face), I had no right to interfere with the production of Here Comes the Bride.
If Georges was gloating, it was impossible to detect because he was surrounded by his crew. Mrs. Foot wheeled the trolley forward and Mr. Plunket and Boris assisted her in handing around cups of tea and setting down plates of fabulous-looking sandwiches, scones, and cakes on available surfaces. I was pleased and proud to see that Mrs. Malloy had come out of her sulks to join Livonia in comforting Molly.
“Now come on,” she held a teacup to the rigid lips, “it’s all over. And a poor excuse for a ghost she was-no wailing or icy chill. I’d be ashamed if it was me not to make more of an effort, but there you are; like I always say, there’s some as put their best foot forward and others as do the minimum. How about one of Mr. H’s nice ham rolls?”
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Not on me, you’re not.”
“Just a bite, Molly,” Livonia urged. “I can’t believe I wasn’t terrified. This morning I would have bolted for my car.”
“We all knew coming here,” Wanda drank her tea with pinky raised, “that adjusting to whatever Mucklesfeld offered was key. Being a romantic, though, I have to admit I’m a little disappointed that there aren’t more of the usual type of reality show moments of alone time with his lordship, walks in the rose garden under the moonlight, intimate dinners for two in the gazebo.”
“The gazebo is in ruins along with the gardens,” Judy pointed out practically.
“Whatever the state of his property,” Alice again poked at her abundant hair, and spread a hand caressingly over her flowing skirt, “Lord Belfrey is more of a dreamboat than I dared to hope for. Even his Christian name, Aubrey, it couldn’t be more right! So distinguished. Not the forgettable sort like Jim or Tom.”
“I think Tom is a lovely name.” This from Livonia, but I stopped listening. Something had clicked into place for me… what it was Nora Burton had said that had afterwards niggled. When standing in the hall at Witch Haven, I mentioned that Here Comes the Bride was getting under way at Mucklesfeld and if sufficient drama wasn’t produced, Georges would have a tantrum. Her response had been to ask if I was talking about Lord Belfrey. At the time it had seemed understandable, seeing that she was new to Witch Haven, but was it? Moments later, Celia Belfrey had spoken of her cousin as Aubrey. Wasn’t it likely she had done so previously? Could it be that Nora Burton had been overplaying her role of discreet paid companion? If so, why? A thrill coursed through me. Who was Nora Burton? Could it possibly be…? I recalled his lordship asking me on the night of arrival if Ellie was short for Eleanor. I needed to get away and think. Georges provided the opportunity. He beckoned to me and informed me that I was free to leave.
“The next segment will be his lordship joining the contestants for a group chat, and you, my dear, would be de trop. Help yourself to whatever you wish from the tea trolley on your way out. No cause to mope, Mrs. Haskell, your services will be required again.” He swung the wheelchair away with all the aplomb of a Roman charioteer prepared to mow down lions and Christians alike.
I prepared to make good my escape by piling a plate high with goodies but deciding against a cup of tea. That I could get in the kitchen from Ben, which would be preferable to a solitary ponder. I was within a foot of the door when a scream even louder than the one hurled from Molly Duggan rent the air. Turning, I beheld all the contestants on their feet, but it was Wanda who appeared to be doing some sort of tribal dance while still emitting that dreadful sound to a grim chorus of the word Rat!
“No need to carry on so!” Mrs. Foot’s voice conveyed both contempt and annoyance. “You’re all frightening the little precious! Isn’t that right, Mr. Plunket and Boris?”
“They are at that, Mrs. Foot.” Mr. Plunket nodded.
“I’ll get him for you, Mrs. Foot.” Boris made a move toward Wanda, who was now clutching at the bust of which she was so justifiably proud.
“It came down my neck. I’ll never get past the feel of its vile fur and horrible raw tail.” Gone-perhaps never to return-was the bubbly woman flush with her own charms. Clearly she had missed landing on Lady Annabel or she would have fled.
Despite Judy Nunn’s efforts to calm her down, she was out the door, to be heard racing up the stairs, alternately sobbing and swearing. Alas, the library was not to be left in relative peace. Molly began weeping, and Mrs. Malloy overrode all other voices to state that her George had once asked if he could have a pet rat and she’d told him over his dead body! Meanwhile, Mrs. Foot, Mr. Plunket, and Boris had all dropped to their knees and were crawling around the floor making crooning noises. A pink nose twitched a whiskered peek out from under a chair, and before anyone else started screaming, Mrs. Foot was staggering to her feet with the little darling in her hands. Her cooing voice with accompaniment by Mr. Plunket and Boris followed me out of the library.
Let Georges restore order in there, not that Wanda didn’t have my utmost sympathy. I made for the kitchen, plate in hand, and to my delighted relief Ben was there in his temporary kingdom. His face lit up at seeing me. My heart sang, but rushing into his arms might have caused the loss of my spoils, so I just stood smiling at him as I said: “Alone at last!”
“Sweetheart!” He removed the plate, set it on the table, and gathered me to him, kissing me with tender passion, before asking my forgiveness for earlier. “I was completely out of line; don’t know what got into me going off on you like that.”
“It’s this house, darling! For the past thirty years or so it has been steeped in misery, haunted by whatever emotions-venomous anger or grief-that Sir Giles Belfrey felt, coupled with the spite of his daughter, Celia, toward his wife.” I reached for a cucumber sandwich. “Do you have time now to talk about all that? I’d like to get your thoughts…”
Life at Mucklesfeld was a series of interruptions. Lord Belfrey came through the kitchen door, his presence as it must always do transforming the most mundane of surroundings into something grand.
“Am I intruding?” His smile extended to both of us, but his dark eyes appeared intent only upon my face. Fortunately, if Ben noticed, he gave no sign.
“Not at all,” we both said together.
“I wanted to thank you, Mr. Has… Ben… for the wonderful meals you are providing, and,” a hesitation, “no offense intended, to stress the necessity of making sure any alcohol is put where Mr. Plunket is unlikely to find it. He’s done so well over recent months and for his sake I’d like to prevent a relapse.”
“Of course,” Ben responded with equal seriousness. “I found a couple of old metal bread boxes that from the dust on them hadn’t been touched in years way to the back of the top pantry shelf. They’re back up there, considerably heavier.”
“I appreciate it.” His lordship nodded. “Better safe than sorry. Mr. Plunket admitted to me that he was a violent drunk. Terrible thing, alcoholism-an illness, no doubt about that. Could be the fate of any of us. Sorry to put you to the trouble climbing stepladders.”
“There was a bonus.” Ben smiled. “When getting down the bread boxes, I found a torch I needed to look into the cooker.”
“If it’s not strong enough, there’s one in my desk with a really powerful beam.”
A further interruption when Mr. Plunket, Mrs. Foot, and Boris forged into the kitchen at once, all of them guiding the tea trolley, which typical of its kind wanted to go its own way. Conversation with my husband being effectively nixed, I again took up my plate, waved a hand at him in particular and the rest in general, and headed out into the hall and up the main staircase. By now I no longer felt in need of a map to reach the former servants’ quarters, and I arrived at my corridor after no false turns to hear raised voices coming from a room two or three doors from mine. The one sounding most clearly to my ear was Mrs. Malloy’s, and she was speaking kindly. Nanny would have to hand out gold stars.
“No one’s saying you’re making a giant fuss, Wanda. If anyone sympathizes it’s me, seeing as how at least three of me husbands was rats. But what Livonia here and me is saying is the thing will be put back in its cage.”
“And escape again! No, thank you! I’m packing up and getting out of here this minute.”
“It’s not Houdini!”
“No.” Livonia sounded doubtful.
“Stuff the reassurances.” A thump suggested Wanda had tossed a suitcase on the bed. “That Boris the zombie was in the circus, wasn’t he? Teaching the… thing to open the cage door would be child’s play to him. Ghosts, even the real kind, don’t scare me, but rats! Let me tell you, we had chickens when I was a kid and they attract them by the dozen. One day my brother picked up a dead one and threw it so it landed on my shoulder. That’s something you don’t get over. Ever! Where’s my flaming nightdress?”
“Here,” Livonia said.
“Ladies, I shouldn’t be taking this out on you.” Wanda sounded conciliatory. “But I’m leaving.”
“I do understand. I do really. I was ready to bolt this morning, but life can change in an instant for the… the wonderful.”
“Or go the other way,” Mrs. Malloy the eternal pessimist, “but think of what you’ll be giving up-the chance to marry a lord. Now, that opportunity don’t come along with a bag of crisps, and when all’s said and done, you’re not a bad-looking woman. Perhaps too quick to think you’re a laugh a minute, but in my book that’s a lot better than yapping on about what kind of dirt is best for growing roses.”
“When it comes to looks and the title, he’s a catch, all right, but this place-rat-infested dump-you can keep! Sure, I know what was laid out on the application form about the emphasis on the practical, but a girl can dream, can’t she? Anyway, I’m telling you the chance of this lord falling for any of us is zip. He might as well be married and about to celebrate his bloomin’ golden anniversary from the shuttered look in his eyes. And I wasn’t born with this figure to let it go to waste. If you’ll take advice from someone who’s been around the dance floor, don’t either of you be fools and get stuck here for life!”
Another thump suggesting the suitcase hit the floor had me flitting into my room. Shameless to have eavesdropped. Worse that remorse did not set in as I applied myself to another cucumber sandwich, followed by another of egg and cress, a strawberry tart, and a mini coffee éclair. Having strategically left my door ajar, I heard the exodus down the hall-Mrs. Malloy and Livonia presumably returning to the library, hopefully not having kept Lord Belfrey waiting; Wanda to exit Mucklesfeld.
The number of contestants would again be reduced to five, but perhaps that was the intent now that Here Comes the Bride was under way. A process of attrition until only the strongest of the six remained and Lord Belfrey’s choice was made for him. Georges and his scare tactics, although presumably he was not responsible for Whitey’s intrusion on the scene. It was obvious why Lady Annabel’s appearance had not taken place under the glaring gaze of the cameras. The less light the better in fooling the susceptible eye; but that the momentous event had not been recorded for the entertainment of future viewers was unthinkable, which meant hidden cameras. Devious Georges! Keeping the contestants continually off balance as to when or where they were being filmed.
Meanwhile, I pictured the reaction to Wanda’s departure, Lord Belfrey sizing up the remaining contestants. My guess was that he would be drawn to Judy Nunn, a woman both energized and restful. Her passion might never extend beyond the grounds to the house, but she would have the organizational skills to put others successfully to work in areas not of her expertise. At this juncture the timid Molly Duggan would not have emotion to spare on jealousy of a particular rival, but would Alice Jones, like Mrs. Malloy, have already sized up Judy as the woman to beat to the altar?
The evening passed quickly despite my feeling confined like Bertha Mason Rochester to the attic. I’d unearthed the paperback I was halfway through from my suitcase and whiled away a couple of hours until Ben rescued me with the announcement that he and I were to dine in solitary state in what had once been designated the morning room, but was now another storage area for furniture that Sir Giles had grouped together in vague hope of finding a dealer willing to cart it away. Unfortunately, his lordship had told Ben, in recent years there hadn’t been much of a market for Victorian ugly, and anything good had already been sold off. Or, I thought, plunging my fork into a delicious morsel of Lobster Thermidor, spirited away by daughter Celia. At least the overcrowding of the hall and drawing room was now explained. I pictured Sir Giles ordering the old handyman, now working for Miss Belfrey at Witch Haven (what was his name? Forester?), to heave the pieces of furniture into position for viewing, and when they didn’t sell, closing his eyes to their presence and sinking ever further into the Slough of Despond.
From the window I saw Lord Belfrey crossing the overgrown lawn with Alice Jones of the billowy hair on his left and Molly Duggan sadly prim on his right. I wondered while reveling in a meringue glacé how Mrs. Malloy and Livonia were currently occupied. As it happened, I met them both in the hallway outside my bedroom after leaving Ben to prepare a late night five-course snack for Georges. I mentioned that I planned on going to church in the morning for Sunday service and asked if they had heard what time it would be.
“Nine o’clock,” responded Livonia promptly, adding with flushed cheeks that she had also decided to go.
“And you can count me in, Mrs. H. Never let it be said I don’t do me Christian duty come rain or shine, except of course when having a lie-in with a book or giving meself a manicure.” Mrs. Malloy went on to reflect on what she would wear, bemoaning that she had only the one hat with her and it was dented from the lamp shade. “That Mrs. Foot and her pranks! Admitted to me as how she dropped it over the banisters for a laugh. A cackle’s more like, the sad old crone. Still, I won’t go holding a bit of silliness against her should I get to be lady of Mucklesfeld. Live and let live is the way I see it. And to send that trio packing isn’t in me. Shame I can’t see that sort of compassion from the others,” she heaved a pained sigh, “especially that Judy Nunn as seems to think she’s the only body in the world as can get a job done right. Now, our Wanda might have been different if she hadn’t left us.”
Absence can be such a virtue! The three of us arranged to meet in the hall at eight thirty the next morning and I got ready for bed. It had been a long day. The ache of returning Thumper to his rightful owners came back in full force. I lay thinking of his dear furry face and form before drifting into sleep. The comfort of our few hours together stole over me, followed sharply by another memory-the sensation of being covertly watched while I stood by the ravine waiting for him to return from his foraging. Sometime later, I was vaguely aware of Ben creeping through the bedroom into his cubbyhole, and something in my muddled, half-submerged state shifted the ordinary into stealth, causing the echo of those padding footsteps to linger unpleasantly in my ears until sleep grabbed me back down into murkily disjointed dreams.
Suddenly I woke to lingering horror. In the nightmare the watcher in the woods had been Celia Belfrey, her features distorted into the ugliness of epitomized evil. Suzanne’s face was a beautiful, alluring version of mine. Witless creature to have put herself in the path of such hatred, but I should have screamed out a warning. Even a silent one would have shown willing. The suffocating powerlessness of dreams was a poor excuse. My chest hurt from the pounding it had taken, and slow, concentrated breathing was required before I felt steady enough to sit up and face the day.
A glance at my watch showed five minutes to eight, and a peek into the cubbyhole revealed that Ben was already up and undoubtedly occupied in toiling for Georges while very possibly also providing breakfast for every other hungry mouth. I had to rush in order to be downstairs to meet Mrs. Malloy and Livonia in the hall at the appointed time. Both had the well-ordered look of women who make Sunday church attendance a priority instead of shaking off bad dreams. Mrs. Malloy wore the hat on which the lamp shade had landed and a black satin suit with rhinestone buttons. Livonia was in a navy linen dress with a sweetly prim white collar. Very pretty she looked, with not a crease to be seen. My eucalyptus green skirt and blouse were riddled with them, and I regretted not wearing a cardigan even though the morning was delightful warm, with only fluffy lamb-shaped clouds appliquéd on the blue gauze sky.
Not much was said on the brief walk to the church. Livonia and Mrs. Malloy appeared lost in their thoughts, while I was still struggling to get the wheels churning. Mercifully, I had not made us late. We arrived at the church with five minutes to spare. Lingering in the entryway with its bulletin board and wooden racks of pamphlets, we were greeted by flapping hand gestures from a middle-aged man with a mechanically propelled walk, a port wine complexion, and miraculously black hair.
“Welcome! Welcome! Ever so lovely to have visitors at St. Mary’s in the Dell. Will you all be taking communion?” This question was asked in the manner of a maître d’ suggesting it would have been the teensy-weensiest bit helpful if we’d phoned ahead for reservations.
“Would it be inconvenient?” Livonia asked, while edging toward the archway leading into the dimness of the nave. My suspicion that she had caught a glimpse of Dr. Tommy Rowley was confirmed by the sight of his eagerly turned profile from the back pew.
“Not at all,” the man glanced flurriedly at his watch before flapping us forward. “Our vicar, Mr. Spendlow, who will be starting in a ticky-poo, will be delighted for you to come to the altar.”
“We’re not vestal virgins if that’s what you’re hoping.” Mrs. Malloy sounded sourer than may have been intended. The temperature dropped precipitously and I hastened to make clear we were the jocular sort.
“She was a nun in a former life and it wasn’t for her.”
“Oh, I see!” Clearly he didn’t. Beckoning Livonia, who had been inching toward Dr. Tommy’s pew, into our orbit, he bustled us up the aisle close to the front. “Will this suit? Good, good! Enjoy!” He faded into the wash of pale light seeping in through the stained-glass windows as we seated ourselves, receiving nods from two women already ensconced to our right. Surreptitious glances sideways and over my shoulder revealed a respectable attendance. Admittedly St. Mary’s in the Dell was tiny, but in this day and age Mr. Spendlow (judging from the clerical collar) now emerging from a side door to ascend the pulpit had reason for confidence that God could still draw a nice crowd. Livonia sat holding a hymnal close as if it were a dear, familiar hand. Mrs. Malloy whispered to me that this was nice, although a bit poky compared to St. Anselm’s.
“Wonder if the ancestral Belfreys is buried under the floor.”
I compressed my lips in prayerful contemplation.
“Have to be a terrible squash, bunk bed style.” Her whisper rose.
Livonia’s chin was tilted in hopeful stillness.
The air was a distilled blend of mildew and beeswax, with a hint of incense wafting down through the centuries. Mrs. Malloy adjusted the hat before reaching down for a kneeler, which she proceeded to tuck behind her back.
“Might as well make meself comfy.”
Our two pew companions had their stares cut short when Mr. Spendlow started his opening remarks. He was a man his early thirties with a-to me-surprising ponytail and stubble beard. Ever ready to make assumptions, I anticipated a hip approach to the service in general and the sermon in particular, but to my relief all proceeded along traditional lines. The choir sang in and out of key to the accompaniment of some invisible personage thumping away on an organ, a minimum of bobbing up and down was required, and the sermon was a frank talk, delivered in a sensible voice, on the requirement for positive action, extending beyond our nearest circle into the larger community.
“I am speaking, my dear friends,” hands grasping the front of the pulpit he leaned forward in an earnest search of faces, “of those occasions when we allow ourselves to stand idly by-telling ourselves that speaking up… reaching out with words of compassionate concern to those we sense are in trouble… would be unwarranted interference. But it is my belief that it is our sins of omission that…”
A snore to my left from Mrs. Malloy, who had succeeded all too well in making herself comfy.
“… that may come back to haunt us… with those unutterably sad words, if only. If only, I had asked what I could do to help. If only, I had uttered those words of warning…”
“Shush!” Mrs. Malloy uttered the word with sleepy ferocity.
I had to make matters worse by elbowing her in the ribs.
“Yapping on in church when people are trying to get a bit of peace!”
“He’s supposed to talk,” I whispered. “He’s giving the sermon.”
“That’s his excuse! Give a man a soapbox and he won’t get off till somebody starts throwing rotten tomatoes.”
Livonia was sinking down in her seat; our pew companions had converted their stares into glares. But Mr. Spendlow, after an amused-looking pause, continued to his conclusion.
Fortunately, after the final hymn and brief benediction, the congregation surged to its feet, making it possible to be borne outside on a tidal wave of humanity without revealing more than the tops of our heads. When I was able to see beyond a few inches around me, it was to note that Livonia wasn’t with us.
“Gone to make eyes at Dr. Rowley.” Mrs. Malloy is never at her best when still groggy with sleep. “A right shame, I call it, her continuing to lead Lord Belfrey on when it’s clear as daylight she’s fallen hook, line, and sinker for another.”
“The less of her, the merrier for you,” I was pointing out, when suddenly finding Mr. Spendlow at our elbows. That hat of Mrs. Malloy’s had to have been the giveaway.
“Thank you for not throwing rotten tomatoes at me.” He twinkled boyishly at her. The ponytail and suggestion of a beard reminded me of my cousin Freddy, and following Mrs. M.’s suitable abashed murmurings I congratulated him warmly on his sermon, adding my regrets that we wouldn’t be in Grimkirk next Sunday.
“A pleasure to have had you with us today. I’m sorry your visit to the area” (discreetly put) “has been shadowed by the car accident.”
“Terrible,” I said.
“I dreamed about it all night long.” Mrs. Malloy stood looking tragic in black, only the rhinestone buttons striking too bright a tone. “That’s why I dozed off just now, instead of storing up every word you said, Vicar, as is my usual way when at church. Much prefer it to the pictures. Always have, isn’t that right, Mrs. H?”
“What?” It had suddenly struck me as surprising that Mr. Spendlow hadn’t referred to the accident during the service, requesting prayers for the deceased.
“I understand she-Suzanne Varney-was a friend of your wife?”
“That’s right. Ingar was shattered when she heard. Ah, here she is now.” The assembly of congregants had thinned, heading toward their cars or proceeding on their way on foot. Turning, I beheld a tall, Nordic-looking blonde, with the long-legged walk and vigorously healthy aura one imagines gained from camping next to fiords or skimming over frozen lakes on ice skates. There followed a few minutes of politely generalized conversation before Mr. Spendlow was corraled by the gentleman with the miraculously black hair, port wine complexion, and flapping hands.
“Dear Stanley,” Mrs. Spendlow’s eyes followed affectionately, “he’s the head verger and utterly convinced St. Mary’s would crumble to rubble without him. And he’s absolutely right. My husband counts on him for so much. Oh, no! He’s dropped his pocket handkerchief. Excuse me while I…”
“I’ll take it to him. That’s the trouble with men, need constant looking after. A woman’s willing lot!” Mrs. Malloy teetered off in her high heels. Martyrdom on route to canonization after the rocky start to her day.
Seizing the moment, I brought up Suzanne Varney. “We’d heard she’d decided to come in a day ahead to spend time with a friend. And Celia Belfrey, whom I met when looking for the owners of a lost dog,” it was still incredibly hard to mention Thumper, “told me you were that person. I’m so sorry.” How to ask what they had talked about without appearing ghoulishly curious?
“Trust that woman to be in the know! For someone who rarely leaves the house, especially now she has that downtrodden-looking assistant, she’s next to omniscient.”
“Apparently Ms. Varney stopped at Witch Haven to ask directions to the vicarage.”
“That was it, was it!” Ingar Spendlow brushed back a long lock of straight silk hair. “Sorry to sound spiteful, but Celia Belfrey is a horror! She’s spread it around I’m an atheist because it’s the last thing a clergyman’s wife is supposed to be, although I can’t see why not. She plays into assumptions that because I was born in Sweden-that hedonistic haven-and because my thing isn’t organizing the annual bazaar, I have to be godless and my husband should be dispatched with a boot to the rear.” She looked around and, seeing nobody close, continued: “Celia Belfrey is one dangerous woman. If I were Lord Belfrey, I’d be on the alert for her sticking a spoke in his reality bridal search. It’s not in her to tolerate her father’s heir-or anyone else, for that matter-living happily ever after at Mucklesfeld.”
“I’m not one of the contestants,” I explained.
“Poor Suzanne!” Another glance to assess the all clear. “No, I’m not suggesting that accident was rigged, that would be going too far, although I remember her as an excellent driver. We were never extremely close, but I always liked her. She was the one who wasn’t religious-the idea of people praying for her soul would have offended her, which is why my husband did not refer to her or the accident during the service. But interestingly, I believe she wanted to talk to me because of my perspective as the wife of a clergyman. Aren’t people contradictory? Lovably so.”
“Did she want to discuss the wisdom of being a contestant on Here Comes the Bride? Any ethical concerns, for instance, that she might have about doing so?” Should I come straight out with my knowledge-gained from his lordship-that he and Suzanne had a prior acquaintance? I suspected that Ingar Spendlow’s loathing for Celia Belfrey had goaded her into saying far more than she normally would with a complete stranger. But how far could I push without appearing too nosy? Or was that question now moot? Mr. Spendlow was heading back to us, still in the company of Stanley-purple silk handkerchief restored jauntily to his breast pocket. “Suzanne wanted to talk about her anger, how vengeful it made her feel. The hate eating away at her, made more explosive by having been kept bottled up. I asked about friends, but she said she didn’t have any-only acquaintances, except for me, and we hadn’t seen or corresponded with each other in years. She said if she believed in anything, it was fate bringing us together. But that was as far as she got. I received an urgnt phone call from a parishioner who needed to see me immediately…”
There was no time for more. Mr. Spendlow placed an arm around his wife’s shoulders, clearly eager to talk about Stanley’s suggestion of chair placement in the church hall for the youth concert that night. Mrs. Malloy, Livonia, and Dr. Tommy waited a short distance away, and how long could they be expected to stand admiring the parking area? I said my goodbyes to the accompaniment of a particularly coy handshake from Stanley-his parting words resounding in my ears as I rejoined my little group. Had anyone commented on my resemblance to the last Lady Belfrey? Such a charming looking young lady she was. A sad loss for the parish and (obvious afterthought) her husband. He had not added and her stepdaughter.
“Oh, there you are, Ellie.” Livonia beamed at me with surprised delight, rather as though I had stepped out of a lifeboat after being feared lost on the Titanic. “Imagine, Dr. Rowley,” looking shyly up into his equally radiant face, “being at the very same service! He could have been at the eleven o’clock, or he could have been at this one and we…”
“How are you today, Mrs. Haskell?” He executed more of a bend than a bow over his round tum. A gentlemanly formality that thrilled one of us to the core, warmed my heart, and produced a glower from Mrs. Malloy.
“I should try fainting next time I go somewhere and get to be an invalid for the rest of me life. ’Course, not everywhere’s as conducive to a good old-fashioned attack of the vapors as is Mucklesfeld. Did my fellow contestant here tell you, Dr. Rowley, about the white rat jumping on the ghost’s wig?”
“No! My dear,” reaching for Livonia’s blatantly willing hands, “what a ghastly experience for the tender female!” Was this the first time it had occurred to me that Grimkirk’s local GP might share with some amongst us a predilection for the swoonier romance novel? I pictured him sitting up in bed at night, wearing striped pajamas, a tear trickling down a plump cheek as he hoped against hope that Wisteria Whitworth and Carson Grant would defy the odds against their walking down the aisle to soaring strains of “Oh Perfect Love.”
“The truly gruesome thing,” Livonia looked deep into his eyes, “was that for a moment she didn’t seem aware that anything-let alone a rat-was on her head. She had this fixed, quite dreadful grin on her face!”
“Ghosts are above worldly disturbances,” Mrs. Malloy retorted loftily.
“But she wasn’t one, just someone pretending to be Lady Annabel Belfrey with her head stuck back on after being guillotined.” Livonia clung ever more tightly to Dr. Tommy. “Even Molly Duggan realized that, or she would have fled Mucklesfeld along with Wanda Smiley. Poor Molly! She is even more timid than I am… or was before embarking on this mission of self-discovery.” She explained who she was talking about to the entranced but also suddenly anxious-looking Tommy.
“So you’re now one contestant down.” It should have been clear as glass to Livonia why this worried him, but it had to be remembered her relationship with Harold had given her no reason to believe herself the sort of woman to arouse jealousy in the heart of a man. Sweet, guileless Livonia! Or was she singing exactly the right song for a duet?
“I think that worked to Georges LeBois’s plan.” I said. “Six, five… then four, three, two, until there is one.”
“Meanwhile, we, the contestants, have an event in mind, as was the brainchild so to speak of Mrs. H here.” Mrs. Malloy adjusted the hat to a more imposing angle. “She found out from your cousin Celia that there used to be an archery contest held every year at Mucklesfeld. So we thought we’d put one on to show we can get together as a group to bring back something from the good old days. ’Course, I’d rather set the thing up meself-too many hands in the pastry don’t work to my way of thinking-but there’s some already as resent me getting in late in the game, so it’s go with the flow. Just family invited, so we hope you’ll come, Dr. Rowley. Tomorrow, if poss, is what was decided. Afternoon would be best, but there’s you and your patients…”
“Will you be able to come?” Livonia, no longer holding Tommy’s hands but seeming woven to him by invisible cords, asked with no attempt to feign indifference.
“Delighted! No afternoon or evening surgery on Mondays.”
“That’s what his lordship said when we-well, Judy Nunn specifically-told him about the idea. He also said Miss Belfrey might be receptive to the idea of coming herself and agreeing to her handyman coaching the participants on use of the bows and arrows if you asked her.”
“I would gladly have done so,” Tommy looked both fervent and crestfallen, “but I’m afraid Celia and I had a falling-out last night. She said some things about… about Aubrey’s marriage plans to which I took grave exception. And in the ensuing exchange of words she ordered me never to darken the doors of Witch Haven again.”
It was an easy guess that Celia Belfrey had made derogatory remarks about the sort of woman who entered TV reality shows in search of a husband. Probably she was repeating what she’d said on earlier occasions without more than a token mumble of protest from Tommy-why bother upsetting the old girl to no purpose? But this last time would have been different; he could not allow her to malign the intent of even one of the contestants-not if he were to meet Livonia again pure of heart. I doubted that Celia would want a permanent breach, not out of any affection, but because Tommy had to be her main source of information regarding Lord Belfrey and what he had in store for Mucklesfeld. Meantime, the breach provided me with an opening that I felt driven to seize if I were to obey my conscience as Tommy had done.
“I’ll go to Witch Haven and deliver the message about the archery contest,” I said.
“You will?” Livonia eyed me with a mixture of respect and concern. “What if she’s nasty to you?”
“Someone has to go, and it can’t be Lord Belfrey as he’s banned from the premises. I’ve a strong suspicion that, despite her protestations of eternal enmity, curiosity will bring Miss Celia Belfrey to your proposed event.”
“Won’t miss the chance to scoff from the sound of her.” Mrs. Malloy nodded the hat. “I’ll go with you, Mrs. H. After all,” she added importantly, “it would be more of a proper invitation coming from one of the contestants, which you’re not, when all’s said and done.”
This wasn’t at all what I wanted, seeing my main intent was to have a private talk with Nora Burton. But there was no arguing her point. Fortunately, Livonia spoke up, reminding her of a prior commitment.
“Well, yes, being at the meeting with you and Alice Jones and Molly Duggan to decide what rooms we’ll each focus on for setting to rights is important. And I know it was agreed on right after church, but…” It was clear from the pursing of her glossy purple lips that Mrs. Malloy was seriously torn.
“What about Judy Nunn?” I asked slyly.
“Her? She’ll be out in the gardens, tearing out tree stumps with her bare hands or rerouting the brook.” Thunderous brow.
“She’s incredible!” Livonia enthused. “His lordship seems very impressed.”
“He does?” Tommy nudged at a stray stone with the tip of his shoe. “And may the best contestant win?”
“Absolutely.” Livonia looked up at the sky.
“And who that may be is yet to be decided.” From the fierceness of Mrs. Malloy’s tone, I knew she’d made her decision. She’d be at that meeting not one second late. Breathing a sigh of relief, I suggested that either she or Livonia write a note to Miss Belfrey on behalf of the contestants, which I would take along to Witch Haven. Eager to be of service, however minimal, Dr. Tommy produced a pen and notepad. The missive was dictated by Mrs. Malloy and written down and neatly folded by Livonia.
I lost no time in making off for Witch Haven. It was tempting to linger in the leafy lane, enjoying its green shade and mosaic of shadows on the ground, the warm breeze suggesting a frolicsome mood to the day. Would I be speedily shown the door after saying what I had to say-if given the chance? My hand grasped the door knocker. My heart thudded along with its hammering fall. There was a line between sins of omission as addressed by Reverend Spendlow and sticking one’s nose in other people’s business. The door opened with startling speed, scattering beyond recoverable reach the words I’d been shoving into random order.
“Good morning,” said Nora Burton; she was again lumpily dressed in a wintry-looking skirt and sagging cardigan. The thicklensed glasses loomed large on her face, contracting her expression of polite inquiry to a lift of the mouth.
“Back like the bad penny!” Assuming admittance, I placed a foot on the threshold.
“Without the dog.” She didn’t budge. “Did you find the owner?”
“Yes…”
“Good, I’ll let Miss Belfrey know.”
“I have a message for her from the contestants in the reality show.” I held it out and watched her pocket it in the shapeless cardigan. “But it’s you I must talk to.”
“Must?” She stepped backward into the hall.
“Somewhere private.”
She stood rigidly still, as if finally the moment she had been anticipating since coming to Witch Haven was at hand.
Aware that the hall might have ears, I whispered the question. “You are Eleanor Belfrey?”