She Shoots to Conquer (32 page)

Lucy shrugged. “From watching the interviews and other film. That’s the system as explained at the start of the first episode, but in reality,” curling her tongue around the word, “it’s bound to come down to the one he can best see himself stuck with for life . . . or at least as long as it takes to get a divorce.”

“Was Georges pleased with the mayhem produced by Lady Annabel showing up in the gallery?”

“Who knows?”

“I thought it was a bit lame. He could at least have had her head fall off so she could tuck it under her arm and go bowling. It was only Whitey showing up that succeeded in creating a sufficient panic to drive off Wanda Smiley. How many more does he hope to scare away? I’d have thought a little attrition goes a long way.”

“Right.” Lucy reached into her pocket again, drew out a packet of cigarettes, turned it over a few times, and put it back. “The idea is to dangle the question as to who may be next at a point when hopefully the viewers are beginning to root for particular contestants. The next person to talk about bolting will be invited to sit down with his lordship and talk out her concerns. His obligation—even if he’s already decided against her being the pick of the litter—will be to persuade her to stay.”

“It sounds so ruthless.”

“Has to be; that’s the reality show for you,” chewing energetically on the gum. “Sounds as though you’ve never watched even the first five minutes of one?”

“When it comes to a wedding story, I prefer fiction.”

Lucy eyed me in surprise. “That’s what the reality show is—life turned on its head so there’s no longer anything real about it. Wanda Smiley being the one to leave is what took me by surprise. I’d have bet on either Livonia Mayberry or Molly Duggan, who seemed like two timid little birds of a feather.”

“I like Livonia. And there may be more to Molly than meets the eye.” Having established myself as a sanctimonious prig, I addressed another issue. “What I don’t understand is why Georges wanted me in the library for his ghost scene. He spun me a line about my using my interior design background to draw out the contestants’ views on refurbishing Mucklesfeld, but on reflection it seems a bit feeble.”

“Don’t take offense, but you are a dewy-eyed innocent, aren’t you?”

Preferable perhaps to being too old to be scruffily attractive, but I had no idea as to her point. “Spell it out for me.”

“Okay, but I’d have thought it was obvious. The great Georges isn’t one to batten down his hopes, however remote, of a twist to the plot that’ll strike real gold. Look,” Lucy again explored her jeans pocket, but this time did not produce the packet of cigarettes, “the entire crew knows Lord Belfrey was knocked for six on first setting eyes on you—that you’re the spitting image of some young woman in a family portrait that he’s been yearning after like a soppy schoolboy for years.”

“So?” The furniture seemed to be crowding in for a listen.

“You do want it printed out in big letters, don’t you?” Lucy eyed me with, if there is such a thing, amiable contempt. “Could Georges write the script, honey, it would be bad luck for the contestants and for you the lovely moment when his lordship gets down on one knee and offers you his hand, his heart, and this god-awful house. Of course, you’ll probably have to wait for the
engagement ring until the money starts pouring in from the proceeds of the show . . .”

“But I’m married!” I was too astounded to fume.

“Georges would consider that kind of thinking bourgeois.”

“I also have three children!”

A shrug, followed by more probing of the jeans pocket.

“And a cat!” Somehow I felt that if I could have added,
And a dog
, it would have clinched matters.

“Look,” said Lucy with impatient kindness, “I understand the suburban mind-set. But Georges is more narrow in his thinking. He’s only capable of taking the broad view when surveying a banquet table.”

“That’s another thing!” I leaped on the thought. “He seemed to like my husband. Or at least his cooking. Surely even he couldn’t be as treacherous as you suggest.”

Lucy’s look informed me I was a poor, deluded nitwit. Even worse, she patted my arm before saying that if she didn’t go outside and have a ciggy, she’d go into terminal withdrawal. I watched her negotiate her way through the obstacle course to the front door. Even from the rear, she had that air of negligent sophistication that makes an asset of unwashed dishwater-blond hair and torn jeans, leaving me feeling frumpish, over-washed, and utterly incapable of rushing after her to administer a sermon on the evils of smoking.

I was determined not to participate in any more of Georges’s staged events. Not difficult, on the face of it. But what if Ben wanted to know why I was being obstructive? Would I dash his chance of the publicity for Abigail’s, should
Here Comes the Bride
make it to the small screen? Would he suspect Lord Belfrey of complicity and whack him over the head with a rolling pin? I yearned to discuss this with Mrs. Malloy, but that was out for the same reason I couldn’t tell her that Nora Burton was Eleanor Belfrey. To put a spoke in her wheel, or for that matter any of the other contestants’, would risk destroying a dream that might raise a mundane life to glorious heights. And then there was Lord
Belfrey himself, who had charted his course and was entitled to sail toward the horizon without my sticking my paddleboat in the way. Oh, to have had the ever discreet Thumper as a confidant!

I decided to go into the library, mount the steps to the portrait gallery, and search out the entrance through which the sweetshop lady had emerged to play Lady Annabel’s ghost. Opening the door into what was likely the handsomest room in Mucklesfeld, with its remnants of polish on the vast oak floor and wainscoting along with the blessedly limited furnishings, I thought myself alone until mounting the final step of the short, railed stairway, where I beheld Lord Belfrey seated on one of a pair of leather chairs at the far end of the parquet from Lady Annabel’s portrait. He rose instantly on catching sight of me. I was struck again by how his most ordinary movement exuded gallantry. He would, I thought, look heroic putting a box of corn flakes in his shopping cart.

Damn Georges! The embarrassment that seized me was entirely his fault. Any woman who wasn’t preoccupied by being tied to the stake with flames licking at her brand-new shoes would feel a quiver of response at his lordship’s intent, dark-eyed gaze and that smile . . . so warmly welcoming, even when touched by a suggestion of nobly repressed sorrow.

“You’ve caught me,” a rueful lift of the mouth and eyebrows.

“Doing what?” I stood as Lot’s wife must have done when feeling herself turning into a pillar of salt.

“Skulking.”

“Oh!”

“Escaping the infernal cameras, tripping over cords, blundering into seating that has just been positioned for a scene. Care to join me in my hideaway?” He extended a hand and at my nod drew back to the chairs. I took the closer, he the one he’d just occupied. “It’s not the contestants I’m avoiding.” His voice deepened with intensity. “They all seem very pleasant women.” Was it me he wanted to convince or was he attempting to blot out an inner voice that was telling him he was making the mistake of his life? Backing out now might cause enormous hurt to the five hopeful females.
Ticking Georges off would also be an issue, but not likely, I felt, to weigh with him to anywhere near the same extent.

“One contestant” (I had almost said
Another
) “down.” I was glad to hear my voice sounding conversational. “Poor Wanda Smiley. She wasn’t smiling as she threw her clothes into a suitcase before bunking off.” Catching the drawn look on his face, I said hastily that he shouldn’t upset himself about that. “They all know that the nasty surprise is a feature of the reality show to pick up the pace now and then. No one’s going to tune in just to watch the contestants having races doing the washing up.”

“I can’t blame Georges if I’ve grown squeamish.” His lordship stared bleakly across the railing. “He warned me, even whilst remaining vague, that he had some startling tricks up his sleeve. Perhaps but for Suzanne Varney’s death I wouldn’t have these qualms. Could take it all in my stride . . . believe as I did at the beginning that the outcome could benefit not only myself but another.”

Sadly, I stifled the urge to protest that a loveless marriage, whatever the practical advantages, was not a cheery-sounding arrangement. Even harder to squash was the temptation to spill the beans that the woman who had held his heart captive these many years was presently installed at Witch Haven. To which I would have added the opinion that if swept into his impassioned embrace, she would not long remain impervious to his admiration. How cruel a fate should he happen upon her in the high street as a newly married man unable to offer her his hand except to unburden her of a shopping basket filled with delicacies to tempt his cousin Celia’s peevish appetite! Perhaps there would be a way I could ultimately bring the two of them together, but for now I swallowed the bitter pill of honorable silence. Such thoughts pushed my plan to discover Lady Annabel’s means of entering the gallery out of my mind.

“I spoke with the vicar’s wife after church this morning,” I said with a nicely casual touch.

“Normally I would have been there, but with all the curiosity that’s bound to have arisen over what has been happening here, I
opted out today.” For the first time I caught a look of his cousin Tom in his lordship’s boyishly apologetic gaze.

“Completely understandable.” Awful to cause the beleaguered man a moment’s discomfort, but I was about to put my foot in it further. “Your cousin Celia mentioned yesterday, when I went to her house to see if she might know who . . . the dog belonged to, that Mrs. Spendlow was the person Suzanne intended to visit before coming on to Mucklesfeld.”

“And did they meet?” There was nothing guarded about his interest.

“Yes. They were old friends who hadn’t met in years. Apparently, Suzanne had something on her mind that she had kept to herself for some time, but for some reason felt Mrs. Spendlow would be the right confidante. Unfortunately, their time together was interrupted before she got to the heart of the matter. All Mrs. Spendlow was able to say was that Suzanne was dealing with a great deal of anger.”

“No idea what or who was the cause?” Now he did look and sound somewhat troubled.

I shook my head. “But if bracing herself to talk about whatever happened brought some of that anger to the surface, perhaps Suzanne wasn’t at her best when handling the car at the time of the accident. On any other occasion she might have been just that bit more alert . . .” My voice wobbled to a halt and his lordship touched my hand. All very discreet, but something connected between us, a mingling of intense emotion. We were talking about a woman—still quite young—who had died.

“Poor Suzanne,” he murmured deeply. “I remember her as very likable. And Judy Nunn speaks fondly of her. Livonia Mayberry also knew her, though rather less well. Perhaps they might have an idea what was on her mind.”

“Not if Mrs. Spendlow is correct in her understanding that she was to be the first in whom Suzanne confided.”

“Yes, I’d forgotten that point. But one must assume something quite dreadful . . .” He stopped. We had both heard someone enter
the library below, not that whoever it was was noisy about it—indeed, there was something hesitant, tentative, it could even be said surreptitious about those footsteps, followed by a soft closing of the door. Lord Belfrey rose to his feet—his courtesy as instinctive doubtless as the curiosity that caused me to follow suit. There was no telling how visible we would have been, obscured by the gallery railing and shadows collecting in the corners, but the person who had come in did not look up. After a quick, jerking glance around the library proper, she tiptoed, head down, to stand in a bare expanse of wood floor with only the billiard table, which did not take up undue space. An island of serenity compared to the suffocatingly overcrowded drawing room and hall.

She placed a smallish rectangular object on the floor (impossible to see what it was without leaning dangerously far over the railing). Then she drew some item—or items—from the pocket of a full peasant-style skirt before bending down to remove her shoes in the same stealthy fashion that had accompanied her entrance. It did not occur to me to wonder why Lord Belfrey had not called down to her, let alone descended the stairway. He and I had become the intruders in the vignette. Setting the shoes under the billiard table, she sat down, picked up what she had taken from her pocket—slippers of some kind—placed them on her feet, and proceeded to lace them above her ankles. Before getting back up, she touched the rectangular object, and music—glorious, if at a subdued sound level, Tchaikovsky—poured into every particle of the rather musty air that was Mucklesfeld even at its best.

I felt the pressure of his lordship’s shoulder, heard the catch of startled amazement in his breath, but neither of us murmured a word. Nor did it occur to me to wonder what Georges would have made of our standing glued together like the ornamental bride and groom on top of a cake. Molly Duggan—for it was she who, incredibly and improbably, raised her arms above her head, fingers touching to form a Gothic arch—started to dance on her points. Those hadn’t been slippers but block-toed, satin ballet shoes. My hands gripped the railing when she teetered. She was
going to fall splat on the floor in an ungainly heap of dumpy, frumpy forty-year-old woman. Unbearable to watch. We all have our dreams, ridiculously unrealistic though they may be. But no! She steadied, spread her arms, arched her back, and extended one leg behind her in the pure straight line of the arabesque. Out the corner of my eye I saw that Lord Belfrey also had a fast hold on the railing. Then he ceased to exist.

The music was from
Swan Lake
or, as my mother, who had been a ballet dancer, would have called it,
Le Lac des Cygnes
.

Gone also were the peasant skirt and black top. Molly was Odette in a white tutu with a cap of snowy feathers on her head as she leaped, twirled, and fluttered, light as down, achingly tragic . . . The early wobble must have been caused by a moment of distraction, perhaps as her eyes went to the door in fear of someone coming in and discovering her secret. For I had no doubt that this Molly existed in absolute secrecy, quite apart from the woman who worked in a supermarket and was probably most generally known pityingly as the meddling Mrs. Knox’s daughter. Suddenly, with a shift in tempo, she was Odile in black tutu and feathers, her movements no longer dreamy and sad but sharply edged, evilly bewitching, the pirouettes faster, the leaps even higher, so that it was hard to believe she could be airborne without being held up by strings. Again the music changed. No longer Tchaikovsky, but a composer I didn’t recognize. This piece was not white or black, but the misty gray of cobwebs, and that is what Molly became—a filmy drift upon the air, fragile beyond belief. I held my breath in the fear that she would brush against the billiard table and disappear. Then, abruptly, it was over. The music faded away to nothing and did not resume. Molly removed the ballet shoes, replaced them with her ordinary ones, picked up the player, and after a final furtive glace around her as if fearing that the walls had tongues as well as ears, tiptoed from the room.