I was determined not to participate in any more of Georges’s staged events. Not difficult, on the face of it. But what if Ben wanted to know why I was being obstructive? Would I dash his chance of the publicity for Abigail’s, should Here Comes the Bride make it to the small screen? Would he suspect Lord Belfrey of complicity and whack him over the head with a rolling pin? I yearned to discuss this with Mrs. Malloy, but that was out for the same reason I couldn’t tell her that Nora Burton was Eleanor Belfrey. To put a spoke in her wheel, or for that matter any of the other contestants’, would risk destroying a dream that might raise a mundane life to glorious heights. And then there was Lord Belfrey himself, who had charted his course and was entitled to sail toward the horizon without my sticking my paddleboat in the way. Oh, to have had the ever discreet Thumper as a confidant!
I decided to go into the library, mount the steps to the portrait gallery, and search out the entrance through which the sweetshop lady had emerged to play Lady Annabel’s ghost. Opening the door into what was likely the handsomest room in Mucklesfeld, with its remnants of polish on the vast oak floor and wainscoting along with the blessedly limited furnishings, I thought myself alone until mounting the final step of the short, railed stairway, where I beheld Lord Belfrey seated on one of a pair of leather chairs at the far end of the parquet from Lady Annabel’s portrait. He rose instantly on catching sight of me. I was struck again by how his most ordinary movement exuded gallantry. He would, I thought, look heroic putting a box of corn flakes in his shopping cart.
Damn Georges! The embarrassment that seized me was entirely his fault. Any woman who wasn’t preoccupied by being tied to the stake with flames licking at her brand-new shoes would feel a quiver of response at his lordship’s intent, dark-eyed gaze and that smile… so warmly welcoming, even when touched by a suggestion of nobly repressed sorrow.
“You’ve caught me,” a rueful lift of the mouth and eyebrows.
“Doing what?” I stood as Lot’s wife must have done when feeling herself turning into a pillar of salt.
“Skulking.”
“Oh!”
“Escaping the infernal cameras, tripping over cords, blundering into seating that has just been positioned for a scene. Care to join me in my hideaway?” He extended a hand and at my nod drew back to the chairs. I took the closer, he the one he’d just occupied. “It’s not the contestants I’m avoiding.” His voice deepened with intensity. “They all seem very pleasant women.” Was it me he wanted to convince or was he attempting to blot out an inner voice that was telling him he was making the mistake of his life? Backing out now might cause enormous hurt to the five hopeful females. Ticking Georges off would also be an issue, but not likely, I felt, to weigh with him to anywhere near the same extent.
“One contestant” (I had almost said Another) “down.” I was glad to hear my voice sounding conversational. “Poor Wanda Smiley. She wasn’t smiling as she threw her clothes into a suitcase before bunking off.” Catching the drawn look on his face, I said hastily that he shouldn’t upset himself about that. “They all know that the nasty surprise is a feature of the reality show to pick up the pace now and then. No one’s going to tune in just to watch the contestants having races doing the washing up.”
“I can’t blame Georges if I’ve grown squeamish.” His lordship stared bleakly across the railing. “He warned me, even whilst remaining vague, that he had some startling tricks up his sleeve. Perhaps but for Suzanne Varney’s death I wouldn’t have these qualms. Could take it all in my stride… believe as I did at the beginning that the outcome could benefit not only myself but another.”
Sadly, I stifled the urge to protest that a loveless marriage, whatever the practical advantages, was not a cheery-sounding arrangement. Even harder to squash was the temptation to spill the beans that the woman who had held his heart captive these many years was presently installed at Witch Haven. To which I would have added the opinion that if swept into his impassioned embrace, she would not long remain impervious to his admiration. How cruel a fate should he happen upon her in the high street as a newly married man unable to offer her his hand except to unburden her of a shopping basket filled with delicacies to tempt his cousin Celia’s peevish appetite! Perhaps there would be a way I could ultimately bring the two of them together, but for now I swallowed the bitter pill of honorable silence. Such thoughts pushed my plan to discover Lady Annabel’s means of entering the gallery out of my mind.
“I spoke with the vicar’s wife after church this morning,” I said with a nicely casual touch.
“Normally I would have been there, but with all the curiosity that’s bound to have arisen over what has been happening here, I opted out today.” For the first time I caught a look of his cousin Tom in his lordship’s boyishly apologetic gaze.
“Completely understandable.” Awful to cause the beleaguered man a moment’s discomfort, but I was about to put my foot in it further. “Your cousin Celia mentioned yesterday, when I went to her house to see if she might know who… the dog belonged to, that Mrs. Spendlow was the person Suzanne intended to visit before coming on to Mucklesfeld.”
“And did they meet?” There was nothing guarded about his interest.
“Yes. They were old friends who hadn’t met in years. Apparently, Suzanne had something on her mind that she had kept to herself for some time, but for some reason felt Mrs. Spendlow would be the right confidante. Unfortunately, their time together was interrupted before she got to the heart of the matter. All Mrs. Spendlow was able to say was that Suzanne was dealing with a great deal of anger.”
“No idea what or who was the cause?” Now he did look and sound somewhat troubled.
I shook my head. “But if bracing herself to talk about whatever happened brought some of that anger to the surface, perhaps Suzanne wasn’t at her best when handling the car at the time of the accident. On any other occasion she might have been just that bit more alert…” My voice wobbled to a halt and his lordship touched my hand. All very discreet, but something connected between us, a mingling of intense emotion. We were talking about a woman-still quite young-who had died.
“Poor Suzanne,” he murmured deeply. “I remember her as very likable. And Judy Nunn speaks fondly of her. Livonia Mayberry also knew her, though rather less well. Perhaps they might have an idea what was on her mind.”
“Not if Mrs. Spendlow is correct in her understanding that she was to be the first in whom Suzanne confided.”
“Yes, I’d forgotten that point. But one must assume something quite dreadful…” He stopped. We had both heard someone enter the library below, not that whoever it was was noisy about it-indeed, there was something hesitant, tentative, it could even be said surreptitious about those footsteps, followed by a soft closing of the door. Lord Belfrey rose to his feet-his courtesy as instinctive doubtless as the curiosity that caused me to follow suit. There was no telling how visible we would have been, obscured by the gallery railing and shadows collecting in the corners, but the person who had come in did not look up. After a quick, jerking glance around the library proper, she tiptoed, head down, to stand in a bare expanse of wood floor with only the billiard table, which did not take up undue space. An island of serenity compared to the suffocatingly overcrowded drawing room and hall.