Even the thickening veil of rain could not disguise his unfortunate facade. It was also obvious from his labored breathing and hunched posture that he was not the outdoorsy sort. Judy Nunn halted a foot from him and stuck out the hand not holding the overnight bag with the spare pair of knicks.
“Lord Belfrey, I presume!” It was said with the utmost good cheer, but Livonia’s reaction was not so sanguine. She gripped my arm with such force that I nearly dropped her suitcase on poor Thumper.
“Not his lordship!” I murmured soothingly. “This is his butler, Mr. Plunket.”
“Then a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Judy eyed him without visible sign of either relief or revulsion.
“Oh, yes, indeed!” Livonia let me have my arm back. “Such a lovely morning to be out and about, isn’t it? Unless you’re the sort who prefers to be indoors when it rains. Everybody’s different, aren’t they?”
Mr. Plunket stared blankly from her to Judy.
“These ladies, Livonia Mayberry and Judy Nunn,” I explained, “are two of the contestants for Here Comes the Bride.”
“Is that right?” He sounded as though he was still stuck in last evening’s fog. “I was down in the ravine checking on that tree that got hit.”
“Lightning?” Judy asked with the keen interest of one who thrills to the elements, however devilish.
Mr. Plunket either did not hear her or chose to ignore the interruption. His hunted expression suggested he would much have preferred not to have encountered us on his morning constitutional. “Mrs. Foot’s been that worried that a puff of wind could bring it down.”
And cause bodily harm to a squirrel? I wondered. The area was well away from the house, but of course for all I knew the ravine might be the favored place of those who relished getting snared by brambles and scratched by thornbushes. Mushroom-hunters, I thought vaguely, or bird-watchers of the particularly dotty sort. Give me the verdant meadow, the velvet hills, the shady lane.
“Mrs. Foot?” Livonia whispered.
“The housekeeper,” I told her. “And there’s another household helper named Boris.” I made a mental note to warn her about the suit of armor that Boris, who enjoyed tinkering, had brought to maniacal life.
“Lord Belfrey should fetch in an arborist to take a look at the tree you’re worried about.” Judy surveyed Mr. Plunket kindly.
“A what?” He batted away the rain as if it were mosquito netting.
“A tree doctor,” I said, setting down Livonia’s suitcase.
“Wouldn’t a GP do for a quick look?” She squeezed out the words. “It’s so awful to think of anything suffering a moment longer than necessary. What sort is the poor stricken tree?”
“An oak,” Mr. Plunket sounded as though he was coming somewhat back into focus, “or maybe an elm or… a beech. I was never much good at nature study. It was my worst subject after English, maths, geography, and history. Like I used to tell my old mum, lunch was my best subject and I never got top marks in that, neither. His nibs will know what sort it is; for a gentleman of his superior background, knowing one tree for another will be bred in the bone along with Latin verbs and what sort of olive to put in a martini. But we don’t want to go bothering him about trees, now do we?”
Given my presumption that the tree under discussion had been hit not by lightning but by Suzanne Varney’s car, I agreed with him. Judy, if not Livonia, probably assumed Mr. Plunket was referring to the stress his lordship must be under now that the hour approached for his meeting with his prospective brides. I set down Livonia’s suitcase.
“So, if you ladies don’t mind,” Mr. Plunket turned up his jacket against the rain, “I’d appreciate your not saying anything about this little conversation to his nibs. I’m not the sort for early morning rambles in a general way and he might get to worrying that I’m going a bit funny in the head after last night.”
“Oh, yes, of course!” Livonia flinched when looking into his gourdlike face, but the sympathy was there in her voice.
“Last night?” Judy met his eyes squarely. Not a flicker of an eyelash. Perhaps she saw the unfortunate man as an interesting botanical specimen, or was simply a nice woman who didn’t think spiteful thoughts about other people’s appearance. But this was not the moment to put on my hair shirt. Mr. Plunket’s revelation of Suzanne Varney’s fatal accident was likely to keep us standing outdoors longer than was desirable. The rain had petered out, but if I felt unpleasantly damp so must the others, and Livonia was shivering.
“I’m afraid I set Mucklesfeld at sixes and sevens yesterday evening, by fainting upon arrival,” I said quickly. “So silly, but…”
“Oh, my goodness!” Livonia swayed against me. “Did you see a ghost?” She glanced fearfully toward the house, which did loom forbodingly as if prepared to sprout an extra turret or two and unleash its ivied tentacles.
“Nothing like that.” I dismissed the Metal Knight from my mind. “It was just the stress from driving in the fog.”
“Don’t seem to get so many pea soupers these days,” Judy inserted comfortably. “Certainly not the smog, thank God and cleaner burning fuel. Although I must say I always enjoyed a coal fire as a girl when coming in after a day spent digging up a field of potatoes. Now I make do with one of those fake electric log ones in my flat and…”
“Mucklesfeld has its ghosts and don’t let no one tell you different.” Mr. Plunket’s face, nodules and all, glistened with pride. “Wouldn’t be proper in an ancestral home not to have them, would it? Shortchanging, you could call it. Might as well live in a caravan at Southend is what Mrs. Foot says, and Boris agrees with her. They’ve both seen the Lady Annabel Belfrey that went on a holiday to see her auntie during the French Revolution. Can’t blame a woman for wanting to see the Eye Full Tower, I suppose, but…”
“Oh, but wasn’t that built…” Livonia petered out.
“Went to the guillotine instead, she did.”
A holiday in Southend might have been a better choice, I thought. The famous long pier, bracing salt air, walks across the mudflats when the sea was out, and yummy fish and chips.
“I suppose poor Lady Annabel has become the headless specter,” said Judy with kindly interest.
“Oh, never!” Mr. Plunket rebuked this notion. “You’d not catch a Belfrey going around making a spectacle of herself is Mrs. Foot’s opinion. And very particular about her appearance was this ancestress, from what his nibs and Dr. Rowley have to say on the subject-strong into the family history is the doctor. No, indeed, Mrs. Foot and Boris have heard she’s always been seen wearing a silk scarf thing around her neck, tied tight enough to keep her head on straight.”
“Oh, good!” said Livonia faintly. “Does she often put in an appearance?”