“What state is it in?” All Ben’s professional instincts were aroused, as evidenced by the tilt of his dark head, the flash of blue-green in his eyes, the fact that he proceeded to turn his back on me. For the moment, my headache and I were nothing to the intriguing challenges to be met behind a green baize door.
“A dungeon. All the well-rusted implements for drawing and quartering. Livestock in the pantry, I wouldn’t doubt, and typhoid in the drains!” Georges LeBois eyed Ben narrowly through puffy lids, a professional sizing up how far to push his actor, shifting and leveling the camera to get the reaction he wanted. “A challenge surely no chef of any spirit with an ounce of stuffing inside him could resist.” I was wondering where his assistants were lurking when Ben asked Georges how he had discovered he was a chef.
“From Plunket. And I do, despite my aversion to men with pimples, have to give the mealy-mouthed fellow some points for trying to cheer me up upon seeing how low I was feeling following the accident. You know we lost one of our contestants? Most unfortunate-particularly for the woman herself, of course-but five is an awkward number to be left with. Still, I knew if I pressed that point too hard, Belfrey was liable to back out and we wouldn’t want that. I’m convinced this one could be a winner.”
Something flickered behind his eyes. Did I glimpse a cold-blooded ruthlessness that would let nothing stand between him and what he saw as his big chance to become a household name? I’d certainly never heard of him before today, not that that meant much. Or was he a man driven to the edge of reason by a frenzied desire to rend a pork roast limb from limb?
“Ben makes superb omelets,” I said.
My beloved had eyes for me once more. “Would you like one, sweetheart?” he asked tenderly.
“Well, yes-I would rather. If you can find a mixing bowl and utensils to sanitize and a pan could be radiated.” I broke off when the door opened to reveal Lord Belfrey and Mrs. Malloy, and all thought fled at the sight of her smug smile. His lordship’s expression was that of the concerned host. He said he was pleased to see that we had met Georges LeBois and explained that Dr. Rowley had spoken with him, expressed relief that I hadn’t seriously injured myself, and hoped I would pass a comfortable night in the bedroom that was ready for me.
“Is it the room that was to have been Suzanne Varney’s?” I asked. Somehow I hated the idea. I pictured her setting out on her journey to Mucklesfeld, a pretty woman, so Tommy had said, not all that much older at forty-five than myself. Had she been excited? Nervous?
“Not that one,” Lord Belfrey assured me, “but I’m afraid there weren’t many to choose from. What were the family apartments and the nursery wings are in a bad state of disrepair, which leaves the servants’ quarters. Small rooms with space only for single beds.” He looked questioningly from me to Ben, who said it wouldn’t bother him to sleep on the floor. Of course I wouldn’t let him do that; we could squeeze cozily in together. Even as I thought it, I knew he wouldn’t agree to that. He’d insist that I get an undisturbed night’s sleep.
His lordship provided an alternative. “The room I picked has a cubbyhole attached that has a small window. I had Plunket set up a bed in there, and I think you may be quite comfortable despite the rather tight squeeze, Mr. Haskell.”
“Ben. This is very good of your lordship.”
“My pleasure. Shall I show you both the way?”
“Who’d have thought when we set off in the car, Mr. and Mrs. H, that we was in for such an adventure?” Mrs. Malloy fluttered her false lashes, attempting to look soulful, but merely looking as though she had something in her eye.
“I’d like my next adventure to be that omelet we were talking about.” Georges LeBois spun his wheelchair in a circle and brought it back to face Lord Belfrey. “You do know this man’s a chef, Aubrey?”
“Plunket told me.”
“Manna from heaven, my dear fellow. Do what it takes to keep him here. Choose him as your bride! Now that would be a reality show!”
His lordship smiled and Ben did not. What had happened to my beloved’s sense of humor? My headache was coming back full force. I barely restrained myself from snapping at Mrs. Malloy when she suggested accompanying us.
Lord Belfrey eased the moment by encouraging her to stay and get acquainted with Georges. After a momentary pout, she set her face back to rights and waved me off as if watching a liner shift away from the quay to carry me to parts unknown. Which was the truth of the matter in the small scheme of things. Icebergs and squalls might not await, but as we followed Lord Belfrey down a corridor and up a flight of angular stone steps, I did have the feeling we were entering alien and possibly hostile territory.
Ben’s muttering “Damn!” (for want of a worse word) upon stumbling in the ubiquitous half-light didn’t help my increasing feeling that Mucklesfeld Manor did not embrace a visitor with promises of warm and fuzzy delights to come. His lordship flipped light switches with efficient speed, but a candle would probably have worked better. Several more passageways and series of steps loomed. I felt rather like a piece being shuffled forward on the board of Snakes and Ladders-always in danger of shooting precipitously back down to the bottom and having to start the whole business over again. His lordship turned every dozen paces to make sure that we were comfortably keeping up with him.
“Where are we at this minute?” Ben asked with, I was pleased to hear, just the right amount of interest as we stood in a small room off a landing. It was lined with shelves containing nothing but dust and the occasional mildewed cardboard box.
“Used to be one of the linen closets in the days when there were mattresses on the beds and working taps on the baths.” His lordship spread expressive hands.
“It must be next to impossible to keep places like Mucklesfeld up these days,” said Ben conversationally as we passed into yet another passageway. I knew he was thinking that the time had come to throw in the towel… if there were any to be had.
“But we owe the past something, at least that’s my assessment,” his lordship replied, and it seemed to me that his eyes sought mine in hope of understanding. Or was he worrying that what seemed to have been a twenty-mile trek had exhausted my weakened constitution?
“I can appreciate the sense of responsibility,” I said.
We plunged on, up another flight of steps to another landing, down again, and along what proved to be the last stretch. His lordship opened a door, flipped the switch to his right, and surprisingly the round globe in the center of the ceiling produced a sufficiently decent light to reveal a box of a room provided with a narrow bed covered with a faded paisley eiderdown. There wasn’t much else to observe: a couple of clothes hooks protruding from the discolored plastered walls, a bentwood chair, a door in addition to the one we had entered, presumably giving entry to the cubbyhole in which Ben was to sleep, and a narrow window sliced into the sloping ceiling.
Lord Belfrey followed my gaze upward. “We are directly under the roof of the east wing. For centuries the female servants slept in one vast open space up here, but sometime in the early part of the twentieth century it was divided up into a warren of single or double rooms to provide them some privacy when they came off duty for the night.”
“That must have been a treat,” I said, adding with what I hoped was a cheery smile, “Is it much of a bus ride to the bathroom?”