She Shoots to Conquer Read Online Free PDF

doorway had called to mind the image of a medieval saint, but that had to be due to a blurred halo of saffron light surrounding poorly delineated features. It was Mrs. Malloy’s description of his having a face like a gourd that told the tale. A flesh-colored gourd sprouting pale nodules, not an attractive sight for someone coming out of a faint. His nose was flat, his eyes lacked color, and his mouth was no more than a horizontal crease among the vertical ones. Not that he could help any of that. Not all men are born to be as darkly,dashingly handsome as Ben. Indeed, as she had demonstrated when unloading the fog, Mother Nature had her moments of being difficult just for the malevolent joy of it. Mr. Plunket was also not helped by his attire. He was wearing a threadbare navy suit, several sizes too skimpy for a man of his rotund build, a dishwater-gray shirt, and a badly creased tie, all of which looked as though they had previously been used as polishing cloths.
    “Who died?” Interest stirred . . . coupled with the insensitivity of hope. If the deceased had been strangled by the suit of armor, it would be proved beyond argument that I had not imagined his attempt to attack me. As for the face above the banisters, I would think about her later . . . much later.
    “Ellie, try to relax, you gave yourself a real crack on the head.” Ben placed a soothing hand on my brow before getting to his feet and staring around the room as if in search of reinforcements. Had a doctor been sent for? Surely not? To disprove the need, I attempted to sit up. Unfortunately, my head went into orbit and an accompanying ringing in my ears forced me to lie back down.
    “Who died?” I repeated fretfully.
    “One of the”—Mr. Plunket paused, and despite my still swimming head I sensed he was making a verbal adjustment—“people . . . expected to descend on his nibs for the coming week. The others aren’t due till tomorrow morning. But this one asked if she could show up this evening. Had been invited to spend the day with someone in the area, she said. Why she couldn’t have spent the night with whoever it was is what Mrs. Foot, Boris, and me wondered, but his nibs said he’d no objection.”
    “So what happened?” Mrs. Malloy is not one to suffer the long-winded gladly, with the exception of herself, of course.
    “It was the fog . . .”
    “An accident on the road?” Ben’s gaze met mine. He had to be thinking this could have been our fate if we had gone on, and feeling better about having followed the van onto the private drive. How puny was embarrassment to the male psyche when compared to the hovering visage of the Grim Reaper.
    “No, right outside.” Mr. Plunket pointed to the window behind my sofa. “Happened three hours or so ago, when the visibility was even worse than when you got here. His nibs had said for us to keep our ears open for the sound of her car approaching the drive. And it was Boris that went out, but not quick enough. If he hadn’t lost time looking for a torch and not finding one, things could have been different.”
    “So, cutting the story short,” urged Mrs. Malloy with all the authority provided by the lamp shade still on her head.
    “I blame myself for not getting outside ahead of him with the hurricane lamp that’s kept in the grandfather clock, to guide that poor woman in safe.” The nodules on Mr. Plunket’s face were the more evident as he moved closer to the standing lamp at the foot of the sofa. “Gone off the drive she must have done onto the side lawn and through a broken section of a garden wall, down into the ravine that’s thick with trees. Like I said, Boris got out of the house too late. When we heard the crash, his nibs, Mrs. Foot, and me followed as quick as we could with the help of the lamp. But there wasn’t nothing could be done. It was a job getting the car door open but we managed between us. Luckily the interior lights worked. His nibs felt for the pulse in her neck.