She eyed me in puzzlement. We were now walking down the badly rutted drive that sloped fairly precipitously on our left into scrub woodland. “I’d have thought that if he’s in line, his name would also be Belfrey.”
“Rowley was his mother’s maiden name. His father made the switch because of some family feud. I got the impression that he hadn’t taken kindly to being the third son. Probably got his nose out of joint from being stuck wearing hand-me-downs and told his share of the ancestral inheritance would be a predisposition to severe acne and early balding.”
“Did Dr. Rowley display any hostility toward his lordship?”
“They seemed friendly.”
“I suppose he was at Mucklesfeld because of the car accident that took Suzanne Varney’s life,” Livonia continued before I could reply. “I still can’t take it in. Did anyone say if she died instantly, or was she able to talk… if only to give them some idea what happened?”
“Tommy’s belief was that she was killed on impact.”
“It’s simply too awful.” Livonia swayed against me, stepping in a pothole. “I’ve always had a fear of getting into a bad accident. Harold says it’s because I know nothing about how cars work, so can never be in complete control of a vehicle. He’s right. I’m not the least bit mechanical, but I suppose I could take a course and hope the instructor wouldn’t lose patience with me if I got the battery and the engine mixed up. In this day and age, a woman on her own should know how to fend for herself in a crisis…” She choked up.
There hadn’t been much fending that Suzanne Varney could have done in her moment of ultimate crisis, I was thinking when we reached the tall iron gates that heralded the end of the drive. Parked against the roadside curb was a pale blue Volkswagen Beetle. Livonia opened the driver’s side door with a timidity that suggested she was expecting an arm to reach out from the back-seat to grab her round the throat. I wasn’t all that surprised, therefore, when she screamed: “There’s someone crouched down on the other side of the car. I saw the top of a head.”
Even incoherent thought, let alone a verbal response, became impossible with Thumper barking agreement. Our blinking eyes perceived a woman coming round the front of the car.
“Did I scare you? Sorry. I’d got some gravel in my shoe and bent down to shake it out.”
“Oh!” Livonia forced a tremulous smile.
“It’s so early,” I said with what I hoped was a light lilt, “we thought we would be the only ones out and about.”
“An acquaintance kindly dropped me off and it had to be at first light because she has to be back in time for work at nine and it’s a good two-hour drive. I was about to go for a walk and get the lay of the land around Mucklesfeld.”
“Oh!” Livonia repeated, but this time there was interest in her voice. “Are you another of the contestants for Here Comes the Bride?”
The woman nodded. She was a diminutive female with short fly-away beige hair and a narrow, thin-featured face. Indeed, her overall appearance was beige-complexion, hiker’s jacket, and twill slacks. The only touch of color came from her brown eyes and matching loafers. “And the two of you?” she inquired.
I explained about the fog and my overnight status. Livonia admitted tentatively to being a fellow contestant, but added that she was having some second thoughts now that a meeting with Lord Belfrey was at hand.
“Don’t go getting cold feet,” the other woman said. She had a quietly brisk, sensible voice. “You must have had compelling reasons for taking this step. In my case, it’s the grounds.” She stood on tiptoe to look around her. “When I read that once-glorious gardens and woodlands had reduced to a sad wilderness, I had to answer the call. My family owned a landscaping business, you see. My brother took it over and ran it into bankruptcy. My attempts to help him out financially caused me to lose my home with its two acres, and for the past few years I’ve been in a small flat with only a window box to satisfy my green thumb.” Thumper extended a sympathetic paw, which she bent down and shook. “Nice dog.” She looked from Livonia to me as she straightened up, her voice briskly pleasant. “Belong to either of you, or to Mucklesfeld?”
“Not ours,” I told her. “But whether he belongs here or from somewhere else in the neighborhood isn’t clear. For the moment I’m calling him Thumper.”
“Suits him. Preferable to Dog Doe certainly.” The narrow face creased into a smile that was reflected in the brown eyes. She extended a hand that was surprisingly workmanlike given her size. “I’m Judy Nunn. And you?”
“Ellie Haskell.”
“Livonia Mayberry. Judy Nunn, you said… the name sounds familiar.”
“I’m thinking the same of yours. Perhaps it will come to one of us. Meanwhile, we are still several hours early. Care to join me on a good long walk?”
Livonia looked less than enthusiastic. I spoke up.
“I should go back inside and talk to my husband about getting ready to leave for home. His parents have been taking care of our children while we’ve been on holiday.” A panicked thought surfaced. They had been expecting us last night… but of course, my breath steadied, Ben would have phoned and explained the delay. Even so, I could not continue to dally outdoors. He was bound to be wondering where I had got to, although to be fair to me-I reminded myself in true wifely fashion-he had been the first to do a disappearing act.
“I think I’ll come inside with you,” said Livonia in the tentative voice of one who was used to having the most ordinary statement dissected prior to rejection, “if you don’t mind, that is. I… I’m scared I’ll lose my nerve if I wait any longer to face the music.”
Oh, woe to Lord Belfrey, I thought with tender sympathy. Here was one woman who saw him merely as a means to causing Harold a momentary pang and another who seemed to be only after his garden. I refused to dwell on Mrs. Malloy and her silly fantasies. All it would take to squash them was the discovery that there were no bingo halls within a three-hundred-mile range of Mucklesfeld Manor. I wondered about the other three contestants as Livonia retrieved her suitcase and handbag from her car. Would there be one among the remaining trio eager to discover true love with the lord of the manor?
Judy, perhaps in the spirit of camaraderie or because it was beginning to sprinkle with rain, said she would forgo her walk for the time being and come inside with us. After disappearing around the side of Livonia’s car, she reemerged with a small overnight bag.
“No case?” Livonia inquired worriedly, as if fearing that bringing luggage was an infraction of the fine-print rules of the competition.
“Never travel with one even on extended trips,” Judy responded cheerfully. “I go by the two pairs of knicks rule. One on, one rinsed out and hung up to dry overnight. I’ve never understood why people have to take their entire lives with them when they travel.”
“That’s what Harold always said.”
Oh, dear! I thought. I could hear Mrs. Malloy saying as clearly as if she were standing next to me that Livonia Mayberry needed a backbone transplant and if I didn’t watch myself I’d be donating mine. It occurred to me at that moment that I did owe Livonia something for not blabbing to Judy Nunn about last night’s fatal accident. Further relating of Suzanne Varney’s death should be left to Lord Belfrey.
“That dog’s going to miss you like the dickens. Devotion written all over him,” remarked Judy as she set the pace on the walk up the drive. Head and shoulders forward, her feet scattered gravel right and left. Had there been a bulldozer in her way, I had no doubt she would have walked nimbly over it without missing a beat. Livonia already looked winded, and I had to suck in oxygen while glancing down at Thumper, who had kindly returned to stay at my heels after a sideways dive to encircle a couple of trees that swayed dizzily as a result. There was no doubt from his upturned face and the besotted glow in his eyes that his passion for me had not abated. If he could have done so, I felt sure he would have taken Livonia’s suitcase from me (it was the kind without wheels) and carried it on his back. From his vantage point, ours was not to be a one-night stand. Yes, he had broken into my boudoir and thrust himself unencouraged onto my bed, but he had chosen to adore me on sight and (to play fast and loose with Browning) with God be the rest. Still, there was no use in either of us pining. Clearly he wasn’t starving, nor did he show other signs of mistreatment. We would each have to forget our infatuation and move on. Although perhaps not with the speed that Judy Nunn was heading down the drive. We had reached the stone wall when Mr. Plunket came through the gap.