She Shoots to Conquer

by Dorothy Cannell

  “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 into a hole in the wall.

  Thumper belly-flopped back to earth, to lie with his limbs at geometrically impossible angles. His pathetically defeated whine tugged at my susceptible heartstrings, but, eyeing my scraped shin, which would undoubtedly develop a bruise, I did not allow my voice to soften when telling him that he was a disgrace to whoever had brought him up. Ignoring his melting eyes, I added that I would be glad to see the back of him. This was not true, and to my instant regret he seemed to take me at my word, getting to his paws and trailing on down the passageway, head low, tail drooping. I was about to tell him that I hadn’t meant it-that I would miss him and would have liked him for my dog, but for the fact I had a cat at home who would be strenuously against the idea-when he halted and in his immobility radiated a renewed vigor, alert and cheerfully alive. He turned to look back at me, stepped forward, and turned again; clearly he was urging me to follow him. A closed door faced us, which I opened, instantly recognizing (as he had already done) that we were back on familiar territory.

  “Okay,” I said. “All is forgiven. We’ll pretend this was your objective all along and say no more of the matter.” His palpable gratitude followed me into the bedroom that seemed likely to be mine for the week ahead. Today was Saturday; I stopped counting forward when Ben emerged from the cubbyhole where he should have slept in the previous night. Perhaps it was the distempered bareness of the small space that brought into such stark relief his dark, curly-haired, olive-skinned, blue-green-eyed good looks. Or was it that it seemed an age since I had last seen him?

  His first words should have been that he had missed me terribly, prior to launching into an apology for agreeing to stay on as Georges LeBois’s chef without waiting to talk to me about it. But after the briefest of glances he turned his attention to Thumper, standing like a very short sentinel at my side.

  “What’s that?” Ben raised an elegantly shaped eyebrow, but for once I was not one hundred percent charmed. A Hello, darling, I feared you were dead and my life forever blighted would have been nice.

  “It’s a dog.”

  “I can see that.” He moved farther into the room, returning Thumper’s equally intent look of appraisal.

  “He,” I stressed the pronoun, “is a black Lab.”

  “That too is apparent. I meant why is he with you?”

  “A woman alone in the world needs companionship.” I sat down on the bed, peeling my shoes off suddenly tired feet. So far I’d had more exercise in the first hours of the morning than I often got in a week, and after only a couple of hours’ sleep at that. “As you may observe, Thumper here is my devoted slave.”

  The dear dog gave an authoritative woof of agreement.

  “Looks like it.”

  Had I been a character in a book-Wisteria Whitworth for instance-I would have gazed up at Ben through a sweep of long, curling eyelashes. But unfortunately I am not overly blessed in the lash department. His are the kind to make any woman’s heart beat in envy. “Thumper,” I continued piteously, “has filled a void in my life since I awoke to find you gone. You might at least pretend to have been worried about me.”

  “I was worried… I was panicked.” Demonstrating the truth of this, Ben sat down on the bed and drew me into his arms.

  “Panic sounds good.” I admitted. “But I need to feel it.”

  “Like this?” He kissed me deeply. Even knowing Thumper was watching could not spoil the moment.

  “Very nice,” I said.

  “I was panicked all right.” Ben smiled wryly. “I thought Lord Belfrey had abducted you.”

  “If you were seriously afraid of that, why did you leave me alone all night?” I waited for him to tell me about his cleanup of the muck-filled Mucklesfeld kitchen and his talk with Georges about staying on for the duration of Here Comes the Bride, but he kept to the topic of his lordship.

  “You must have noticed, Ellie, that the man couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

  “Only because I remind him of a portrait. A foolish fixation from the sound of it, seeing the subject is Eleanor Belfrey, second wife of his cousin and predecessor Giles, and a woman who sullied the illustrious family name by making off at dead of night with the jewel collection and Giles’s beloved Scottie.”

  “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Ellie.”

  “Rubbish!” I said. “Just because I snared you by a witch’s spell cast on the night of the full moon does not mean that every handsome man who crosses my path falls victim to my fatal charm.”

  “The fellow is handsome, damn him.”

  “I’d say reasonably good-looking.”

  “Tall, too.”

  “Now stop that,” I scolded. “I don’t know why you have this hang-up about being of medium height. I wouldn’t want to have to crane my neck when gazing starrily into your eyes.” Ben kissed me again, but I wasn’t entirely sure I had convinced him. And when he didn’t br
ing up Georges LeBois, I told him about Thumper’s arrival through the window, Livonia’s subsequent appearance on the scene, and the unfolding of other events. It was when I got to the encounter with Georges in the kitchen that I paused and said: “Your turn.”

  Ben did not answer immediately because Thumper, who had been prowling the room presumably in search of hidden recording devices installed as per the great man’s instructions, climbed onto the bed and spread out between us.

  “Wouldn’t seem to have heard the saying about two being company, three a crowd.” My husband, who along with the children had always been keen to have a dog if Tobias could be persuaded to give way on the issue, stroked a hand over the silken black head.

  “No shifting from the point,” I said. “What’s this about your agreeing to stay on as Georges LeBois’s chef?”

  “I haven’t agreed to anything.”

  “Lower your voice.” I dropped mine down a couple of notches. “This room may be bugged.”

  “Why on earth…?”

  “We’re on the set of a reality show, remember?” My alarm was only half feigned. “That man you’ve decided to work for has lots of nasty surprises in store for the contestants.” Any one of whom might walk in here at any moment thinking herself safe from prying eyes and ears.

  “Again, Ellie, I haven’t made a decision about Georges LeBois. I told him you’d have to be for the idea and my guess was that you wouldn’t want to delay a minute in getting out of here.”

  “That was you last night,” I reminded him.

  “At first because I felt embarrassed at barging in on strangers, and then,” drawing his eyebrows together as he does when annoyed, “because I didn’t appreciate Lord Belfrey scooping you up in his arms after you fainted and marching you into that living room as though it was his right to do so.”

  “A householder assuming that the blame was his, which was the case; it was his suit of armor, along with Mrs. Foot peering menacingly through the banisters, that scared me half to death.”

  “I admit he doesn’t seem to be a bad fellow-not after talking to him for a while, although I can’t imagine how any man could decide on the course he’s taking. I’d let the ancestral house rot before selecting a bride from a group of total strangers.”

  “Perhaps it doesn’t matter to him whom he marries if his heart is elsewhere, so long as it is someone he believes he can grow to like and respect. And it’s not as though his wife wouldn’t be getting what she wanted in return, whether it’s the title, the house, or the grounds. Or that’s how it should be-a practical arrangement between two people with their eyes open.”

  “Including Mrs. Malloy, Ellie?”

  “She is my worry,” I replied over Thumper’s snores. “There’ll be no squashing her romantic dreams. I’ll need to be around to help her to pick up the pieces if she isn’t the chosen bride.”

  “And if she is?” Ben reached across the furry divider to hold my hand.

  “I’ll be happy for her.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Well, of course I’ll miss having her around at Merlin’s Court and I wouldn’t want to take on any sleuthing without her should the opportunity arise. The children will take her absence hard, but we’ll all have to handle the adjustment. However, any of that is at least a week ahead. Meanwhile, I’d be grateful if you’d stay on and prepare meals for Georges. Maybe he’ll turn into someone nice once he’s back to dining in style. It’s not only Mrs. Malloy, although naturally she is primary, that I’d like to keep an eye on. There’s Livonia to be saved from bolting back to the awful Harold, like Whitey scurrying into that rat hole.”

  “Don’t tell me he escaped! I left the creature caged in a bolted room.”

  “Obviously someone let him out. My guess is Mr. Plunket or Boris; either of those two men would do anything for Mrs. Foot. It really is sad, Ben, all three of them were homeless at some point before they ended up here. I wish I didn’t find them all so spooky. Forced to a choice, I’d rather spend half an hour with Georges than five minutes with one of them, which makes me a despicably unkind person. By the way, has he promised to pay you handsomely for your services?”

  “Payment wasn’t mentioned.”

  “Good.” I squeezed his hand. “I would hate to be married to a man who can be bought by trifles. But what about the children? Will your parents mind staying on with them for another week?”

  “They’ll be knocked silly with delight. I phoned them last night to explain the delay and will give them another call, if you’re sure about this.”

  “It works for both of us.”

  “You won’t be bored hovering on the sidelines in the midst of all the activity?”

  “I’ll hole up here with a book from the local library. But first,” it was surprisingly hard to say, “I have to try to find Thumper’s owner and achieve a reunion.”

  Sensing my mood, Ben again stroked the black satin head. “Georges did promise to list me among the credits for Here Comes the Bride.”

  “Did you get that in writing?”

  “There’ll be a typed contract complete with witnessed signatures.”

  “Get it before you boil him an egg.”

  “Ellie, I think the guy’s to be trusted.”

  “Oh, ye of too much faith!” I tapped him on the knuckles. “What about the phony name and designating himself a Monsieur?”

  “All right! He’s from Tottenham, a dozen or so streets away from where I grew up. So he reinvented himself!”

  “Hmm!” Hadn’t I suspected as much?

  “That doesn’t necessarily make him a complete fraud.”

  “No,” I agreed, while thinking how awful it would be for Lord Belfrey and the contestants if Here Comes the Bride turned out to be a complete sham. My elastic mind painted the scenario: Georges taking the opportunity to hole up at Mucklesfeld because the law was after him for a train robbery, multiple murders, or selling secrets to the Russians in return for a land deal in Siberia. I smiled at Ben, telling him that he had lucked into a marvelous opportunity. “Such great exposure! Your name rolling down television screens all over the country. Think of the increase in book sales for you, and the numbers that will come flocking to eat at Abigail’s! How wonderfully providential that the fog brought us to Mucklesfeld on the eve of Here Comes the Bride. Speaking of which, where is Mrs. Malloy?”

  The door opened, Thumper raised a sleepy head, and in she stalked, resplendent in purple taffeta and clearly in a bit of a mood.

  “Well, I must say, Mrs. H, it’s good of you to show up at last, although I’d have thought you’d have come along to my room as is two doors down and helped me pick my ensemble instead of sitting canoodling.”

  Getting to his feet, Ben said he would go downstairs and see if the provisions had arrived from Smithers, Smithers & Smithers, smiled at me, patted Mrs. Malloy on the shoulder, and went out of the room.

  “We were not canoodling,” I said mildly. “We were discussing our plans for staying on at Mucklesfeld. That’s right,” in response to elevated painted brows, “Ben is going to be Monsieur LeBois’s personal chef for the duration and I’ll be your shoulder to lean on if you run into trouble with any of the other contestants.”

  “Well, I must say,” she did a good job of not looking overly relieved, “it won’t be bad having you around. Although, of course, I don’t suppose as we’ll see much of each other what with a busy filming schedule. And don’t go expecting me to share anything personal that goes on between me and his lordship.”

  “Certainly not.” I got off the bed. “You can keep your canoodling moments to yourself. Now let me make sure you’re up to snuff.” I turned her around-a tottery business given her four-inch heels. “Good, no wrinkles.”

  “I should think not! Smooth as a baby’s bottom, my face!”

  “I was talking about the frock.”

  “Oh! Well, of course. So you think I’ll do?” She crackled with nerves, something so unlike her that I had to fight down
the urge to tell her to give up on this silly business. “Is me hair all right, Mrs. H? Not too much jewelry?”

  The fake ruby necklace and three diamanté brooches were perhaps a bit much. “Perfect! You’re a credit to me and the members of the Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association.”

  “That reminds me!” She stuck a hand in her skirt pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper. “I daresay you’ll like to go into the village when things start rolling and you get to feeling in the way of the cameras and whatnot. Meaning there’s no reason you can’t take this note down to Dr. Rowley’s house; he gave me the address and it’s written down. Right here,” tapping with a sparkly flamingo-pink nail. “And what I want you to do, Mrs. H, is…”

  “Dr. Rowley is here-or he was when I came upstairs.”

  Mrs. Malloy sighed impatiently. “This isn’t for him; it’s for Mrs. Spuds, as comes in to clean for him of a morning, and a very nice woman too from the way he went on about her last night. I’m hoping she can give me the names of a couple of likely ladies to come up here and help me give some of the rooms a cleaning. Although why you couldn’t have offered to pitch in and help, Mrs. H, is beyond me.”

  “I haven’t seen you since last night when I was flat out with a headache!”

  “Well, there is that,” she gave her skirts a yank, “although like I’ve often said, your timing isn’t the best. But we’ll let that go; what do you think of my showing Lord Belfrey I’m the wife for him by rolling up me sleeves and…”

  “Getting some women to come in and clean? Couldn’t he have come up with that one himself?”

  “Not if he’s down to his last bean. I’m going to pay out of me own pocket. Besides, most like he hasn’t wanted to put the noses of them three scary faces out of joint. Never heard of elbow grease, any of them, from the look of the place.”

  “Somehow I can’t see Lord Belfrey succumbing to pressure from whomever he marries to sack them. It turns out they were all homeless for a while.” I eyed her now lopsided skirts.

  “So you have talked to him?”