“No dogs in here.” She had a rasping voice that suggested she stirred gravel into her morning black coffee for the benefits.
Again I explained the situation without success. She didn’t remember seeing the dog before. Nor had she been asked to post a Missing notice by the owners of a black Lab. She suggested I inquire at the estate agents on the opposite corner, who never seemed all that busy these days. I thanked her but decided against trooping from shop to shop and bothering passersby. I would take Lord Belfrey’s advice and call at Witch Haven. Hadn’t I been hoping it would come to that… the chance to meet Giles Belfrey’s daughter, Celia? And if that didn’t work out successfully, I might reap results when delivering Mrs. Malloy’s note to Mrs. Spuds. Working for Tommy must have given her some insights into the lives of those who had inhabited Mucklesfeld.
When I asked directions to Witch Haven, the pained expression altered, but not more pleasantly so. Interest both sly and avid flickered in the narrow strips of eyes between the gummy black mascara.
“Miss Belfrey likes her privacy, so if it’s just about the dog, you’d better be ready to have the door shut in your face. If it’s something more personal…” She let the words drift.
“Lord Belfrey suggested I go there.”
“Did he then? And how do you come to know his lordship?” Usually I don’t mind curiosity, especially when it’s my own, but hers was accompanied by a barely suppressed sneer tinged with glee, as if she were hoarding some delicious secret.
“I’m staying at Mucklesfeld.”
“One of the contestants?” She pulled a tissue out of its box and wiped it across the top of the cash register, while the real activity remained in those eyes.
“My husband and I got stranded in the fog. If you could kindly tell me how to get to Witch Haven?”
Scrunching the tissue, she tossed it into a plastic bin behind the counter. “Arrive before or after the accident?”
“After.”
“How’s his lordship taking it, then?”
“My husband and I just met him.”
“What sort of lot are they-the contestants, the ones that made it into Mucklesfeld alive?” She shrugged. “Can’t blame us locals for being interested, especially me, seeing as… but that’s for me to know and others to find out.” There it flashed again-the look of being the holder of a gleeful secret. The door jangled, and a woman came in with a couple of small children who instantly dropped down to fuss over Thumper. The mother said: “Mustn’t touch strange doggies.” I assured her that this one was friendly, made the necessary inquiry, got the negative result; then asked her, turning my back on the woman behind the counter and all those wonderfully filled jars of old-fashioned sweets-humbugs, gob-stoppers, aniseed balls-if she could direct me to Witch Haven.
Back out on the pavement, I told Thumper that there was always a bright side. “Had the guillotine not intervened, Marie Antoinette could have ended up looking like that Terror in there. And then who’d give a hoot whether or not she had said, Let them eat cake.” This naturally reminded me that I hadn’t eaten breakfast, leading me into the bakery, where I purchased a Chelsea bun and a Bakewell tart with no objection to Thumper from the assistant.
Paper bag in hand, I continued down the high street, munching as I went. As instructed by the mum in the sweetshop, I turned at the jewelers, proceeded down a narrow road lined with narrow gray brick houses opening directly onto the pavement, their elderly appearance cheered in some cases by glowing white steps, geranium pots in the windows, and wicker trellises around the doors. Few people were about, and none showed any undue interest in Thumper. Halfway down, I crossed over to turn left at the next corner into a tree-shaded lane that looked as though it had never seen a car, let alone a bus.
Set back in a charming garden with a weeping willow leaning toward a brook was a whitewashed, green-roofed, comfortably sized cottage-style house. It had a welcoming look that made me wish it was Witch Haven, but the instructions had been to continue on until the lane broadened into an avenue. There were only two other houses in the lane, both thatched cottages and picture-postcard charming, but I did not linger to admire. The green shade provided by the canopied branches of two rows of trees drew me in and dappled Thumper’s black fur with shadow as he trotted contentedly along beside me, the tie hanging loose in my hand. What a pleasant way to spend a morning. A woman and her dog taking a walk, neither thinking particularly deep thoughts, just enjoying the moment-peaceful in silent companionship. Far too abruptly, we came to the narrow, meandering drive leading up to the faded redbrick house with its ivy and latticed windows.
Here was Witch Haven. I expected to find it dark and drear, and so it might prove on the inside, but I was enchanted by the exterior. I could sense the history in which it was steeped… Cromwell’s Roundheads pounding on the door on a rainy winter’s night, the brave resistance from the Royalist household within. Then later, a Jacobite supporter, with a clear crush on Bonnie Prince Charming, hiding out in the priest hole. And on down time to Queen Anne telling the mistress of the house while paying an informal visit that she was pleased with the new style of furniture but feared it wouldn’t last.
My mind thus occupied, I reached the end of the drive, from which flowed a velvet lawn made for idyllic afternoons of croquet and tea under what looked like Longfellow’s “spreading chestnut tree.” Up the short wide brick steps Thumper and I went to the dark oak, iron-studded front door. It did present a daunting appearance. But if it had opened to Cromwell’s men (conveniently forgetting I had created that scene), why shouldn’t it do so for us? Unable to find a bell, I lifted the saucer-sized iron knocker. It fell with a thud that sent half a dozen crows flapping madly from some lofty perch, darkening the air around them.
“Perhaps she isn’t home,” I said, and then the door opened to reveal a tallish woman of uncertain age wearing horn-rimmed glasses and bundled into a thick cardigan above a shapeless tweed skirt. A painfully pale face, faded hair twisted into a high bun, and clumpy lace-up shoes completed the image of a woman who spent her days hurrying back and forth performing a hundred and one uninteresting tasks at the behest of the lady of the house.
In little doubt I was looking at the recently hired secretary-companion Lord Belfrey had mentioned, I gave my name and explained my errand, including the fact that his lordship had suggested I try his cousin for information.
“I’m new to the area and don’t go out much.” Her voice was devoid of regional accent or personality. “My employer has the groceries delivered, does her banking herself, and therefore rarely sends me into the village. I don’t think I’ve seen him before and I think I would remember. To some people all black Labs would look alike, but I’m a dog lover-being allowed to bring my Sealyham with me was one of the reasons I decided to come to Witch Haven, and that boy there does have a particularly lovable face.” Even this was said without inflection.
After a momentary hesitation, during which I expected her to close the door, she beckoned me into a handsomely wainscotted hall with a beautiful Persian carpet picking up the tones of the warmly glowing red-tiled floor and the cobalt blue of the glass lantern overhead. Unlike Mucklesfeld, the ceiling here was low, but its arched timbers along with the graceful curve of the staircase drew the eye upward. I was aware of gilt-framed portraits of bewigged gentlemen and ladies in richly hewn satin gowns, a dark oak dower chest, and a painted black-and-gold chair in the Empire style with a fringed, dark blue velvet shawl tossed upon it to artistic effect. A silk fan with a tassel would have been too much; but I wondered if it had been tried.
“I’m Nora Burton, Celia Belfrey’s assistant.” The woman bent her head to look with a vestige of a smile down at Thumper and I noticed both the creping of her neck and the fine white tracing of a scar above and below the corner of her left eye. Or was that an age line brought into sharper relief than the rest by the overhead light under which she was directly standing? Perhaps sensing my glance, she ceased the flow of words to Thumper… that he looked a nice boy, a good dog, someone had to be waiting anxiously at home… and raised her eyes to mine. The dutiful employee was replaced by a flesh-and-blood woman. “I hate the thought of dogs running loose, ready to get run down by the next passing car, but they do get out despite watching, especially the bigger ones, I imagine. It wouldn’t be fair to think nasty thoughts about the owner.”