“I don’t know a lot about drink, but Harold told me-he was always telling me things-that alcohol takes effect less slowly in people with severe post nasal drip. But,” she added cheerfully, “I’m beginning to think he wasn’t nearly as clever as he thought, except when it came to door and window handles, which was his job.”
Nobody asked who Harold was or the nature of his career in handles, either because Livonia had already explained him to the other contestants or because he sounded such a dreadful bore. Judy demonstrated a knack of knowing when to change the subject by bringing up the archery contest.
“I’d forgotten it’s set for tomorrow. I do hope Lord Belfrey is pleased his cousin seems willing to bury the hatchet at least for an afternoon. I don’t like to think we’ve put him in a difficult position.”
“If anyone’s up a tree, it’s me.” Alice speared a piece of gateau but didn’t attempt a bite. “I’ve never held a bow, let alone shot an arrow in my life. I know what will happen. My hair will fall down all over my face,” a poke at the recalcitrant tresses, “and I’ll shoot myself in the foot, or worse yet someone else in the eye.”
“Remember,” pointed out Judy, “this nice-sounding man Charlie Forester will be there to show those of us new to the sport what to do.”
“That’s right.” Molly, who had been looking twitchy, smoothed out.
“And Tommy… Dr. Rowley is coming,” said Livonia to her coffee cup.
“With an ambulance?” Alice, whom I was beginning to like, slumped theatrically back in her chair.
“Naturally some of you will be glad of the lessons.” Mrs. Malloy smoothed a hand down her majestic bosom and assumed a look of unconvincing modesty. “As for meself, I don’t claim to be an expert in the sport, but I do believe I’ve acquired sufficient knowledge to do Mrs. H, here, proud.”
I yearned to wipe the smug look off her face; instead, I forced myself to sound admiring. “How exactly have you come by this knowledge of archery?”
“And you asking me that, Mrs. H! As if you didn’t read that book by Doris McCrackle same as I did.”
“Perdition Hall?”
“’Course not! The Landcroft Legacy is what I’m talking about. Remember how when Semolina Gibbons was coming back across the moor-after visiting old Mrs. Weathervane, who wouldn’t tell what she knew about the body in the bog on account of her varicose veins putting her in a mood-someone shot an arrow at her…”
“Who?” Livonia was so intent, her elbow went into her cup.
“Unfortunately,” Mrs. Malloy was brought to the brink of a smile by the recollection, “Semolina couldn’t see who had tried to kill her, because of the mist that she didn’t want to admit to herself was really a fog, seeing as she’d promised the rector who had taken her into his household when he came upon her as a waif selling matches one dark and dismal night in a mean little street…”
“Oh, I love match girls!” Livonia’s eyes remained riveted on Mrs. Malloy’s face, even as she wiped off her elbow with her table napkin.
“So do I!” Molly was looking equally entranced.
“Certainly enterprising,” said Judy, after absently (it must be assumed) swallowing a forkful of gateau.
“The rector, as was named Reverend Goodhope-you’ll remember that, Mrs. H-couldn’t bring himself to buy any of Semolina’s matches because he disapproved of their use for lighting up pipes and cigars… cigarettes too, although I don’t remember him mentioning them. It’s a very politically correct book. All Doris McCrackle’s books are politically correct.”
“How did he light his fires?” Alice asked reasonably enough.
“With a flint box,” Mrs. Malloy said. “He was a very flinty gentleman, but kind in his way to Semolina. The reason he had made her promise never to go out in a fog was that his sister had left the house in a temper-no custard with the jam sponge was the trouble, I think-got caught in a pea souper, and never returned. Although,” Mrs. Malloy’s voice took on a sepulchral overtone, “her ghost was said be glimpsed in the avenue between the rectory and Landcroft Lodge. And there had been a number of other deaths before her; Doris McCrackle can’t never be accused of being stingy when it comes to the number of bodies.”
“Corpses,” Alice corrected naughtily.
Mrs. Malloy waved a dismissive hand. “Semolina briefly suspected the dean’s butler, but he had led a blameless life, unless you’d call giving innocent young girls tours of the Deanery pantries, with particular emphasis on the bottled fruit, wicked.”
“Oh, I do love Deaneries,” exclaimed Livonia. “They’re so Trollope!”
“Splendid author,” said Judy, “although perhaps rather too focused on the indoors. A little more about herbaceous borders and potting soil would…”
“Interestingly,” Mrs. Malloy placed unnecessary emphasis on the word, “all the deceased women had spoken fluent Flemish. As did Semolina’s mother that was Belgian before the consumption took her.”
“I never have time to read anything but shelving manuals,” Molly said from the edge of her seat.
Mrs. Malloy rewarded her with a magnanimous nod. “ ’Course The villain didn’t always stick to the same weapon. Variety gave him his thrill, the nasty bugger! He’d been bullied as a boy, you see, by being called a stick-in-the-mud. But he did like bows and arrows best.”
“Surely not the rector!” Alice gamely took part. “His own sister added to the laundry list!”
“That’s what we was supposed to suspect, either him or Sir Lucimus Landcroft as had dared to love Semolina despite his twitchy left eye and nasty allergy to red vegetables. It was his new undergardener as had the bad speech impediment-only that turned out to be put on because he was really Inspector Smith from Scotland Yard as solved the crime. There’d been a second attack on Semolina, you see, and the inspector explained, without a hint of a stammer, that even an experienced archer can miss if he tenses up and releases the arrow too soon.”
Mrs. Malloy drew up straighter, expanding her majestic bosom. Only the orb and scepter were lacking. “It is the memory of Inspector Smith’s detailed explanation-at least eight pages, of what an archer should and shouldn’t do-as makes me confident that, all modesty aside, I won’t show meself up in tomorrow’s competition.”
Modesty was several miles down the road.
“But must it be won? Why can’t we all go out and enjoy ourselves?” Judy looked down the table.
“Because, like it or not,” retorted a tight-mouthed Mrs. Malloy, “everyone for themselves is the nature of a competition!”
And I had thought for a brief, flickering glimmer that she was coming back into her own! Full of herself, long-winded, but able to capture the interest of most of her listeners. Now, as sure as she had a hundred pairs of shoes, she was going to blow any gained goodwill. Then again-hope reared its foolish head-maybe not.
“It was a lovely story.” Molly’s look of beholding some distant vision suggested she might have missed Mrs. Malloy’s biting comment. “I can picture it made into a breathtaking ballet; the murder parts set to Beethoven’s Fifth, and the scenes at the Deanery to Handel, with interspersions of Wagner, Chopin, and Liszt.”
“Not Wagner, if you don’t mind my saying so, Molly,” demurred Livonia with utmost seriousness. “Not because of his music, but I don’t think he was a very nice man. I picture him as much more like Harold than Tommy… Rowley, for… just one vague example.”
“I don’t like the bally, in fact,” Mrs. Malloy added a self-congratulatory chuckle, “I think it’s bally awful.”
Nobody could have missed that one. Before Molly’s face had finished crumbling, and before Alice could get her mouth more than a third open, Judy said, with an obvious attempt at keeping a grip on her temper, that it was always a matter of each to his or-this case her-own opinion.