“No excusing necessary. I’m pleased Edith Junior would dare hire someone possessing even the slightest hint of moxie.”
Pru felt grateful for the compliment as “moxie” was not a word usually ascribed to her. Maybe this wasn’t the worst possible situation after all.
“And speaking of manners,” Mrs. Spencer rambled on. “You could’ve provided some warning that you were bringing a nonresident alien to live in my house. That’s some how-do-you-do. Perhaps she’s a thief. Or a murderess.”
“You’re the one with a handgun, Mrs. Spencer.”
“I don’t know why my niece pays you a single red cent. Honestly, Ferguson.”
“Murray. The name’s Murray.”
“Hold on,” Pru said, her voice hoarse from lack of use, not to mention the clouds of dust swirling in the air. “You didn’t know I was coming?”
“Lord no.” Mrs. Spencer sniggered. “You’re unknown to me before today, which is probably for the best. Had I recognized Perry from the road I would’ve shot you both on sight.”
“Thank heavens for lucky breaks, then,” Murray said.
Pru turned to him. “Mrs. Spencer didn’t know about me? You didn’t tell her?”
“Believe me, we tried.” He exhaled loudly. “Mrs. Spencer, Edith rang you umpteen times. You were fully aware of the situation but chose not to listen, per usual.”
They stepped into the kitchen and for Pru almost onto some chickens. She blinked. The place was a scene. Trash. Broken furniture. Upended appliances. Enough animals to start a petting zoo.
Pru would soon come to learn that nothing in the room was used for its intended purpose. The stove provided the home’s heat, the multiple refrigerators were for storage, and the furniture sheltered Mrs. Spencer’s crop of amorous spaniels. These dogs were the reason for the holes in the floor, too. Mrs. Spencer cut them so the pups could clump together beneath the floorboards, burrowing like small woodland creatures.
“I don’t know why Edith thinks I need assistance,” Mrs. Spencer said as chickens clacked by her feet. “As if she knows what I need at all. The woman’s exactly like her mother, who’d just as soon see me dead as properly looked after.”
“Edith cares about you,” Murray insisted. “She’s loved you for a lifetime and only wants to ensure you’re healthy and happy. Also, the entire population of Banbury is terrified.”
“That’s hardly my problem. They’re silly. And bored.”
“People are moving out of Chacombe because of you,” Murray said. “Local estate agents are in a frenzy. You are single-handedly depressing home prices.”
“I think declining property values have more to do with the floating pound than an old lady in the countryside. Though I s’pose I can’t expect the village rubes to comprehend basic economics. Anyhow, I don’t much care what they say. They’ve been wagging tongues about me for decades. Not an ounce of it is true.”
“The gossip about the revolver,” Murray said and pointed to her ankle holster. “Seems reasonably accurate.”
“As if that isn’t their favorite thing about me! The Shooting Duchess!” Mrs. Spencer lit a cigarette, a Woodbine. “What a story for them to tell.” She looked at Pru. “Lest you believe the townsfolk sane, they think I’m the long-lost Duchess of Marlborough.”
“A duchess?” Pru said, trying not to smile. “Really?”
“A load of horseshit.” Mrs. Spencer blew a stream of smoke over her shoulder and into Murray’s face. “What would a duchess be doing in this derelict hamlet, I ask you? Especially a duchess of that caliber. The ol’ D of M was the most beautiful creature to ever exist. The press called her ‘the embodiment of sunshine.’”
“A bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?” Murray asked.
“I’m merely repeating conventional wisdom,” Mrs. Spencer said with a little shrug. “So, based on the not-so-trustworthy accounts of a bunch of hayseeds, you’ve brought some pretty young thing to look after me?”
“I have.”
“And what if I reject this proposition?”
“Regrettably, that’s not an option,” Murray said. “If you wish to continue living in your home, Miss Valentine is your choice. Otherwise I have a bed reserved for you in the O’Connell Ward at St. Andrew’s Hospital.”
“St. Andrew’s!”
“You see? Miss Valentine is not such a bad alternative.”
Stomach lurching, Pru considered how she might be a suitable replacement for a mental institution. It was funny how quickly a perfectly decent option could morph into a horrifically bad idea. When was the next flight to Boston? she wondered.
“As I’ve said, Mickey, I’ve lived alone for decades without incident.”
“Not without incident, m’love. And you’ve done wondrously. Alas, you are over ninety years old. Don’t you want help around here? It would be nice to have some company at least.”