“One of the contestants asked me to give this to you.” I didn’t add that she was a friend of mine, so as not to put pressure on Mrs. Spuds. She unfolded and read it. When she looked up, I saw the uncertainty on her face.
“I don’t know, love. Even if this lady is paying, I wouldn’t feel it right to speak to any of the ladies I know about giving a hand at Mucklesfeld without first talking to Lord Belfrey. And I’m not sure I want to put myself in the middle like that. He and Dr. Rowley have begun to establish a nice relationship-working toward becoming friends after all these years of not having contact, let alone seeing each other. No, love, I think I’d best stay out of things. Would you mind telling that to the lady?”
“Of course not,” I said, sensing there was something held back.
Mrs. Spuds pressed a hand to her snowy white hair. “There’s the three people now working for his lordship; I gather he’s fond… protective of them. Could be he’d worry that bringing in extra help might put their noses out of joint.”
Silently I agreed with her on this, but still felt there was more going on. “What about the staff employed by Lord Giles Belfrey? Are they still in the area?”
Now we were getting to the root of the matter. “Bless you, love, there wasn’t anyone for near on thirty years, excepting old Forester. He didn’t go to Miss Belfrey at Witch Haven until after her father died. The rest-butler, housekeeper, and maids-were all got rid of right after Lord Giles’s young wife left him. It was like he went mad with grief. Those that went to Mucklesfeld hoping to help-friends and acquaintances along with the vicar, not Mr. Spendlow but the one before-were met at the door by a disheveled, sunken-faced man they had trouble believing was the one they had known. Like you can imagine, love, the nightmare stories grew and Mucklesfeld became a place to be avoided as quickly as possible, even in daylight. Miss Belfrey stayed on for several years before, so she told Dr. Rowley, deciding that if she didn’t move to Witch Haven, she’d end up as crazy as her father.”
“She struck me as unpleasantly sane.”
Mrs. Spuds smiled faintly. “Apart from her obsession with shoes. Apparently she has stacks and stacks still in their boxes, never worn-enough to fill an entire closet to the ceiling. But then I suppose a lot of women are nutty about shoes.” She paused. “There, love, I didn’t like to tell you how people around here think of Mucklesfeld-not with you staying as a guest of his lordship-but sometimes beating around the bush can make the point you’re trying to avoid. And Dr. Rowley says he’s never felt any evil vibrations or what have you, and if ever there’s a man of sense, he’s it. Like he says, it’s not as though Lord Giles murdered his young wife.”
“But is that the local theory?”
“That’s people for you-a young wife vanishes overnight. It makes a better story than her getting fed up and bunking off.”
“Did you know her?” I gave Archbishop Thumper a firmly final pat and moved toward the doorway.
“Only from seeing her at church or in the high street. I could never make out if she was standoffish or deeply unhappy.”
There was no doubt about the whine that accompanied us along with the patter of paws into the hall. My farewell to Mrs. Spuds was speedier than politeness required, but she clearly understood, saying she would close the front door as soon as I was outside to prevent an attempt to follow me.
It had stopped raining; but instead of thinking kind thoughts of Mother Nature, I took exception to the happy blue of the sky. Dear, dear Archbishop… no, just Thumper. That’s who he would always be to me when I looked back to our hours together. Love had been ours for one brief, shimmering moment in time. It had happened: to his lordship at the moment of looking into Eleanor Belfrey’s eyes as she turned to face him on the staircase at Mucklesfeld… to all those others down through the ages whose souls had communicated in a moment of instant recognition more clearly than the spoken word. Our bond took nothing away from what Thumper had shared with Mr. Manning. Not having witnessed the accident that took his master’s life, Thumper must have continued to expect his return. This explained his making off whenever Mr. or Mrs. Dawkins left the garden gate open. Searching, forever searching, until he came through my bedroom window and the truth revealed itself: that Mr. Manning was gone, never to return except in hallowed memory, and now was the time to live again.
The poignant leaning of the weeping willow brought tears to my eyes. Stop it! I brushed them away sternly. Cease this ridiculous wallowing! Thumper is a dog. A very nice one-affectionate, sweet-natured, but unlikely to remember me except as a pleasant sniff or two if we crossed paths in a fortnight. Which wouldn’t happen anyway because within the week I would be back at Merlin’s Court with all who mattered most, Ben and the children and Tobias on my lap. I resolutely ignored the possible absence of Mrs. Malloy. That too-of far greater significance than a black Lab-must be borne if necessary.
I trod purposely on through the high street. When coming up the drive at Mucklesfeld, I saw Lord Belfrey and Judy Nunn standing in front of the broken wall. She appeared particularly diminutive next to his tall figure, but it was clear from her feet-apart stance and energetic gesturing that she was in no way intimidated by him. I saw him nod as if in agreement. To walk behind them to reach one of the back doors into the house seemed inappropriate, particularly when I noticed a long-haired cameraman who on shifting position looked to be the girl named Lucy. It would have to be the front door, I decided.
This meant ringing the bell, sending a rumble of thunder down my spine if not throughout the entire interior. Fortunately, for me if not for him, Mr. Plunket must have been standing with nothing to do within inches of the door. He opened it as if expecting the black-hooded Grim Reaper complete with scythe and logbook… sorry, no death quips after yesterday evening. Stepping aside to allow me to creep around him, he wished me a good afternoon as if announcing that there had been an official statement from Buckingham Palace that the world was to end in twenty minutes, and all who were able should immediately vacate the planet or face a heavy fine. I parted the shadows with my hands and smiled at him through my own sorrow.
“Hello, Mr. Plunket. I see you escaped from the pantry.”
“Pantry?” That could have been him or the mournful echo of my own voice.
“Or whatever cubicle you and Mrs. Foot disappeared into when Monsieur LeBois ordered you out of the kitchen this morning.” I pictured a dark space where tuftless brooms and rank-smelling mops were sent to die. Oh, bother! I was doing it again!
“The artistic temperament. I’m sure he means to be nice.”
I stared at Mr. Plunket and thought: Here is a man who can make allowances for the foibles of others when surely he must know that some-meaning Georges LeBois-spoke of him as Wart Face and others (including myself) harbored equally unkind thoughts. Never again, I vowed, would I notice anything except his devotion to Lord Belfrey, Mrs. Foot, and Boris.
“How did the rest of the morning go?” I asked him.
“Very exciting.” No gleam of enthusiasm accompanied this response. “His nibs met with all the contestants as a group and afterwards with each in turn. Them camera people kept coming from every which way with their equipment, giving orders like they’re the ones owning the place. It’s a wonder his nibs isn’t worn to the bone, but he made sure to pass the time of day when he saw me crawling one of the upstairs passageways calling for Whitey. It turns out he’d escaped from his cage-not his nibs, I don’t mean.”
“I understand.”
“Poor little Whitey! Mrs. Foot and Boris has both been frantic. She broke down in tears after your husband asked for a torch to check something inside the cooker, and the one that’s always wedged under a corner of the sink cupboard to keep it straight wasn’t there. Must have got knocked out and rolled somewhere. Boris and me both knew what was really getting to her. Whitey’s like the child she never had.” Mr. Plunket wiped an eye. “But then she remembered a hole in the wall in that upper passageway and thought perhaps he’d hidden out in there. I thought I heard a squeaking, but it could’ve been wishful thinking.”