It was still raining in halfhearted fashion, but Thumper did not seem bothered and the walk would be a short one. From Nora Burton’s description, which even mentioned the weeping willow in the garden, it had to be the cottage-style house we had passed on our way to Witch Haven. I didn’t want to think about Celia Belfrey until time veiled the memory of those eyes and that voice, and I could persuade myself that I had overreacted. Instead, I concentrated on wondering about the woman behind the horn-rimmed glasses. How could she bear to stay at Witch Haven? My mind nudged toward something she had said-obviously nothing striking or I would have remembered-something that niggled afterward around the edges of my mind. Something to do with Georges LeBois and Lord Belfrey… I almost had it. Then it was gone.
The overspreading boughs of the avenue shed green droplets that turned iridescent on the ground, shadows brindled Thumper’s black fur, and again I determinedly shifted my thoughts to wondering about Suzanne Varney’s friendship with the vicar’s wife. Had the authorities sought information from Mrs. Spendlow? Livonia had said she knew Suzanne only as an acquaintance, but Judy Nunn might know about family members and others she had left behind. Perhaps as sad was the thought of no one sufficiently close to mourn her passing. It was the rain-making me think of tears. I forced myself to step out more briskly as I left the trees for the narrower lane, which soon brought Tommy’s house into view, along with another thought about Suzanne’s visit to Mrs. Spendlow.
Had she wanted to confide in an old friend-and one likely to know his lordship-that contrary to the rules for Here Comes the Bride, she had a prior acquaintance with him? Or was it more likely, as I hoped, that she had not connected the name Belfrey with a man met years before… at least not until she had seen a photo accompanying a newspaper story about the proposed reality show? If indeed Georges LeBois would have agreed to such a photo, rather than leaving the physical appearance of the bridegroom up to conjecture. A more important question was why was I becoming fixated with Suzanne Varney’s personality when her motives and decisions were immaterial, given that she had been doomed never to enter Mucklesfeld as a contestant?
Thumper looked hopefully toward the brook splashing over its stones to a tune it was making up as it went along. Its banks were low and of rock-studded grass sprinkled with wildflowers. The garden with its spacious lawns and broad flowerbeds was having its final fling before moving into October and the approach of autumn. Then it would wear copper and bronze and smell of woodsmoke and cidery windfall apples.
“Sorry.” I led Thumper past the brook and up the drive that was of similar length to the one at Witch Haven. He looked up at me, his eyes instantly sympathetic. Trust him to know that I was downhearted. Why, I didn’t know. I wasn’t worried that Mrs. Spuds would turn out to be another nasty female avid for bad news from Mucklesfeld. Indeed, I pictured her as a kindly, motherly woman who took pleasure in doing for nice Dr. Rowley, who like most general practitioners worked too hard, skipped more meals than he should, and was lucky to get two full nights’ sleep in a row. Didn’t she always tell him it was a privilege to worry over him until the right woman came along to take on that nice responsibility?
Her image was so clear in my mind that I started when the green front door opened and there she stood, exactly to order-the snowy white hair, cozy figure, and best of all the kind face. Even so, her first words plunged a stake through my heart. “My word! Who have you got there but old Mr. Manning’s Archie!”
“Archie?”
“Mr. Manning named him after the Archbishop of Canterbury.” Mrs. Spuds beckoned us inside. “He said that even as a puppy there was something uplifting in those dear brown eyes.”
“There is.” I could not look into them. Did he sense that the moment of parting was closing in? “I’m Ellie Haskell. My husband and I are staying at Mucklesfeld for the coming week.”
“Bless you, love, I know who you are from Dr. Rowley’s description. What a shame you were taken poorly like that! Feeling a lot better this morning, I hope? How did you come upon Archie?”
“He came in through my bedroom window.”
Mrs. Spuds didn’t seem to find anything particularly strange in this. Perhaps she thought I had been sleeping on the ground floor. “You’ve taken to him, I can see that. What needs explaining is that Mr. Manning died some months back and his daughter took Archie to live with her and the hubby like she promised her dad.”
“I heard about Mr. Manning from Celia Belfrey when I went to Witch Haven at his lordship’s suggestion, but she thought that”-my voice caught-“the dog had been put down.”
“That would be her, always hoping for the worst. How that acid-tongued woman can be related to Dr. Rowley or Lord Belfrey-although I don’t know him as well-beats me.” Mrs. Spuds shook her head. “I’m amazed you got your foot in the door, love. No wonder you’re looking in need of a sitdown. If you don’t mind the kitchen, I’ll make you a cup of tea, and afterwards, if you like, I’ll phone Mr. Manning’s daughter and let her know Archie’s turned up.”
“Won’t she be terribly worried?” I followed her through an open door with Thumper-Archie-pressing closer than usual, and sat down on the chair Mrs. Spuds pulled back from the table. It had a yellow and white checked cloth and in the middle was a bottling jar filled with leafy twigs. Altogether the kitchen, with its wide modern window above the sink, cream Aga, and old-fashioned dresser with blue and white china, looked much more cheerful than I was feeling with that soft nose nudging my knee.
“I wouldn’t think she’ll be in a panic, love.” Mrs. Spuds set the kettle on the stove and reached for the tea caddy. “She’s a nice woman is Linda Dawkins, though ready enough to say she’s not an animal lover. Which isn’t a crime. What would please me would be for… Dr. Rowley to get himself a nice puss.” She opened the fridge for the milk. “Both Linda and the hubby are Dr. Rowley’s patients.” I nodded before bending down to unknot Lord Belfrey’s tie from around… Archie’s collar, my fingers lingering in the black velvet fur.
Having placed a cup and saucer in front of me, Mrs. Spuds patted my shoulder. “I also know Linda from playing whist at the church hall when they need someone to fill in. I’m not one of those keen card players, like she is. Both goers, her and the hubby. Never ones for a night by the telly.” She fetched her own tea and joined me at the table. “Home’s where I like to be when I’m not working-although you can’t call it work when it comes to doing for Dr. Rowley.”
“He seems very nice.”
“Kindness itself. Such a shame he’s never married. Shy with women like my Frank was until we got together. And like he’d have said, God rest his soul, it’s a good thing we’re all different. He wouldn’t have liked to hear me sounding critical of Linda Dawkins. I hope you didn’t take it that’s what I was doing.”
“Not at all.” I smiled at her. “You were filling in the picture.”
“Celia Belfrey’s another story, although I have tried to feel sorry for her. Imagine growing up and living out your youth at Mucklesfeld! To my mind it’s a Chamber of Horrors,” Mrs. Spuds stirred her tea, “which I’ve said to Dr. Rowley when I shouldn’t, him almost certain to come into the place one day, unless he goes before Lord Belfrey. Is the tea how you like it? I didn’t put in much milk,” she moved a small pansy-painted jug my way, “add more if you like.”
“It’s just right, thank you.”
“Do you have a dog of your own, love?”
I shook my head, while a voice inside me cried out that Archbishop Thumper was my dog.