Manor House 04 - Dig Deep for Murder (20 page)

Tormented by her tumultuous indecision, she arrived at St. Matthew's for the funeral feeling as if she hadn't slept in a week. The service was mercifully brief, since the
vicar seemed to be having trouble finding good things to say about the dead man.

Elizabeth had hoped to find George or Sid at the funeral, but neither of them was there. No doubt their late night had taken its toll and they were using duty as an excuse not to attend.

As everyone filed out of the church, Elizabeth felt quite desperate. If she was going to speak up, it would have to be now. Once the body was buried, it would be much more difficult to persuade people to listen to her wild accusations.

The vicar was talking earnestly to Betty Stewart when he emerged from the church, and Elizabeth couldn't bring herself to approach them. Instead, she sought out the funeral director, Joshua Metcalf, a solemn-looking man with a nervous habit of twitching his nose.

"Such a sad day," he commented, after greeting her. "I've attended hundreds of funerals, but they never cease to depress me. I suppose it's because they are a reminder of how vulnerable we all are, and how very short our time on this earth can be."

"Indeed," Elizabeth agreed. "I didn't know Mr. Stewart that well, but it's never easy to see someone buried in the ground."

"Twice, in this case." Joshua blinked at her, his long, thin nose twitching in unison. "That must have been such a shock for you, Lady Elizabeth, to find the poor man buried in your Victory Gardens. Such a dreadful shock."

"It certainly was." Elizabeth hesitated. "Did you know Mr. Stewart well?"

Joshua shrugged. "As well as one knows the man who delivers the coal, I suppose. I've talked to him several times. Bit of a surly bloke, actually." His nose twitched even more rapidly. "Not that I want to speak ill of the dead, of course."

"Did you . . . happen to notice anything different about him? When you laid him out, I mean."

Joshua's eyebrows arched. "Different? Can't say that I did. Not that I'd notice, of course. Couldn't recognize his face at all. Nasty business, that. What are the constables doing about it, anyway? Have they found out who did that to him?"

"Not yet, as far as I know." Elizabeth glanced over his shoulder to where the vicar was standing by the coffin. It was too late. She couldn't disrupt a funeral without being absolutely certain of her facts. She would simply have to wait until she could talk to George, and hope she could convince him to open a further investigation.

She was about to turn away when Joshua muttered, "I have to say, though, it's the first time I saw the man's nails clean."

Elizabeth paused. "I beg your pardon?"

"Stewart's nails. They were usually caked with coal dust. I haven't seen them that clean since I met the man."

Without bothering to answer him, Elizabeth spun on her heel and headed for the grave site. She had almost reached it when she noticed a man standing in the shadows of a huge oak tree.

His shoulders were hunched, and his checkered cap was pulled low over his eyes. Although the morning mist had dissipated, his tattered raincoat was buttoned to his throat.

Elizabeth instantly recognized both the coat and the cap. She stopped short, staring at the man. He must have caught sight of her, for he turned and limped across the grass, disappearing around the back of the church. There was no doubt about it. The cap, the coat, and the limp all belonged to the missing man—Fred Bickham.

For a second or two she contemplated telling Joshua what she'd seen. If she did that, she realized, her quarry would have disappeared before Joshua had time to do anything about it. She was left with no choice.

She set off after the man, taking care to remain out of sight as she rounded the corner of the ancient stone wall. She was just in time to see him disappear through the rear gate. Tempted to go back for her motorcycle, she aban
doned the idea. It would take too long, and she might lose sight of him before she could get the thing started and into the lane that ran past the back of the church. She would have to follow on foot, and pray that the man didn't have a bicycle waiting for him in the lane.

Peeking out past the hedges that bordered the churchyard, she saw the hunched figure moving rapidly up the lane. Apparently he intended to cross the fields, giving him a short cut to the village. Elizabeth waited until he'd climbed over a gate and dropped to the other side before moving cautiously forward.

It was easy to follow him through the cornfield. An uneven pathway of crushed stalks led her across the field to the fences on the other side. Here the trail ended, but she was just in time to see the man walking at a brisk pace down the lane toward the crossroad.

She bent over as she followed him, hiding behind the hedges and peeking out every now and then to make sure he was still ahead of her. She had a bad moment when she reached the crossroad and had to dart forward in full view, but fortunately the man kept his gaze straight ahead, and once more she reached the shelter of the thick hedges.

A few minutes later, she wasn't really surprised to see him turn in at the row of cottages. Where else would the man go but home?

She waited at the corner until she saw him disappear up the garden path, then she carefully crept forward. The front door closed just as she reached the gate.

Realizing that he was probably in the house when she visited it earlier, she wondered where he had hidden himself. She'd searched the house pretty thoroughly the last time she was there. Every room, every cupboard, every closet . . . except the space under the stairs. It was the place most people planned on using as a shelter in the event of an air raid. A small, cramped space under the stairs. But certainly big enough to house a man quite comfortably.

She shivered, and glanced at the cottage next door. Per
haps she should wait for Wally Carbunkle to come home. She'd seen him at the funeral. But Wally usually went down to the Tudor Arms for his midday pint. It could be some time before he returned home.

There were no men living in the other cottages, and any of the women who weren't working were probably doing their daily shopping in the High Street. In any case, she could hardly raise the alarm until she had satisfied herself that what she strongly suspected was indeed true.

Having made her decision, she walked boldly up to the cottage and onto the porch. She still carried the key in her handbag, and after fishing it out, she fitted it in the lock and turned it.

She hadn't realized until that moment that the blackout curtains at the windows had been drawn again. She left the door wide open and stepped into the shadowy room, her heart thumping in anticipation.

She stood just inside the doorway, waiting until her eyes adjusted to the shadows. Not a sound emerged from inside the house. Not a creak or a groan from the aging floorboards. Not a whisper or a sigh from a movement anywhere.

She raised her chin, and in a voice that shook only slightly, called out, "Hello? Fred? Fred Bickham! I know you're in here. I'd like to talk to you for a minute. There's a little matter of some overdue rent we have to discuss."

She waited, while the silence seemed to thicken around her.

After a long moment, she approached the kitchen and slowly pushed open the door. The smell was appalling—reminding her of sour milk and rotten eggs. After making sure the room was empty, Elizabeth backed out of there and closed the door.

The hallway was also empty, the door to the space under the stairs firmly closed. She stared at it for a long moment, then moved past it, her skin tingling, to the bottom of the stairs.

The upstairs landing was in darkness. The blackout cur
tains had to be drawn up there as well. The very last thing she wanted to do was climb those stairs and face those dark, menacing rooms. Once more she called out, her voice echoing up to the ceiling. "Fred? I know you're home. I've come for my rent."

The silence, ominous and threatening, chilled her to the bone. Nevertheless, she forced her feet to move, one step at a time, up and up, until at last she stood on the landing. Again she paused, ears straining for the slightest sound.

When it came, she almost jumped out of her stockings. A sharp creak, from the other side of the bedroom door. She moved forward and rapped on the door with her knuckles. "Fred? Are you in there? Open this door at once."

Again silence greeted her. Grasping the handle, she sent up a silent prayer, then twisted it, pushing the door open. She could see nothing inside the room. Nor could she hear anything. Not even the sound of breathing.

Her instincts told her the room was empty, but it took all her courage to edge around the bed and fling open the heavy black curtains. Spinning around, she let out her breath in an explosive sigh of relief as light flooded the room. She was alone. The creak must have been a contraction of the floorboards.

A quick glance under the bed and a hasty peek into the wardrobe confirmed her conclusion. A brief inspection of the spare bedroom also revealed no occupant. If he was still in the house, he had to be in the only place left . . . under the stairs.

She ran lightly down to the hallway, and stood in front of the little door. "I know you're in there," she said loudly. "So you might as well come out." She rattled the handle, but the door was locked from the inside. It didn't budge. "I can have P.C. Dalrymple break this door down." She pounded on the wood panels. "I'm quite sure he'll be happy to oblige."

She froze as a muffled voice answered her from inside
the tiny space. "If you know what's good for you, you'll get out now."

"I'm not going away," she said firmly. "I know the truth now. I know what happened. And I'm not the only one. Sooner or later they'll find you, so you might as well give up now."

Although she'd been prepared for it, she jumped backward when the door swung open so sharply it almost hit her.

He still wore the cap pulled low on his forehead, and she couldn't see his face clearly at first. But then he lifted his chin, and she caught her breath. She'd been right, after all. It wasn't Reggie Stewart who had been buried at St. Matthew's church that morning. For the simple reason that, at that very moment, she was staring at him.

His voice, when he spoke, was low and menacing. "I might have known you couldn't leave well enough alone. It's just too bad, your bloody ladyship, that you couldn't be sensible and mind your own business. 'Cause now I'll have to do something I really didn't want to do."

Staring into his eyes, Elizabeth realized she'd underestimated him. It was a mistake she'd made once before. And this time, Earl Monroe wasn't around to help her.

CHAPTER

15

Sadie Buttons stood in the middle of the great hall and stared in awe. Violet had ordered her to dust the suit of armor and put a spot of oil in the hinges. She eyed the impressive figure with some misgivings. She'd never dusted a suit of armor before. Didn't seem decent, somehow.

She shook out her duster and advanced on her victim. "You must have been a big bloke when you was alive," she commented. "Wouldn't mind a knight in shining armor meself. Make a change from the bloody twits I usually bump into, I'm telling you."

Speaking out loud made her more comfortable. The silence bothered her a lot. She hadn't said anything to Violet, and she wouldn't dream of mentioning it to Lady Elizabeth, but the truth was, the Manor House gave her the willies.

She wasn't quite sure why. Maybe it was because it
was so old, and so flipping huge. Maybe it was the shadows that seemed to move about, or that creepy old geezer, Martin, what with him muttering to himself and shuffling around like his feet was tied together.

"You'd protect me, though, wouldn't you, luv?" She leaned back into the crook of the armor's bent arm and gazed up at the empty helmet. "Oh, my, how strong you are. I could have done with you in the Blitz." She flapped her hand back and forth with an imaginary fan. "Quite take my breath away, you do."

Reaching into her bucket, she pulled out a small bottle of machine oil. "You'll have to excuse me, sire, for messing about with your helmet." She lifted the visor. "Violet wanted me to put a spot of oil in here for you. Make your choppers work better, it will."

After squeezing a drop into each corner of the visor, she studied her handiwork. "Wonder how you ate through that thing? Must have spilled a lot of beer down your shirt, that's what I think."

The visor clacked back in place, and at the same time, a soft whisper of sound echoed down the massive hall. Sadie jumped back, and peered into the gloomy shadows. She could have sworn she'd heard someone giggle. Sounded like a child, it did.

Staring at the empty walls, she shook her head. "Must be imagining things," she said, turning back to the armor. "There ain't no children in the Manor House. Though, if you ask me, the place would be a lot brighter if there was."

She flicked the duster across the broad shoulders. " 'Course, this place probably looks nice and modern to you. I mean, you must have lived in them drafty castles when you was fighting in the wars."

She reached behind to dust the armor's back. "Must be lonely, standing here all the time, with no one to talk to. See the Yanks, much, do you? Probably not. They have their own way out down the back stairs. They wouldn't come along here anyway."

She moved around in front of the metal figure again and began dusting its belly. "I ain't seen much of them neither. Not sure I want to, after all the gossip in the village about them. Except for the major, of course. Good-looking bloke, that major. Might fancy spending an hour or two with him in the back row of the flicks."

Her hand froze as a soft giggle drifted clearly down the hall. She hadn't imagined it, after all. What she'd heard was very definitely a child giggling. But if there was a child in the great hall, she couldn't see it.

She crouched down, her duster vigorously polishing the knee plates. Without raising her head, she peered sideways down the hall. She wasn't quite sure if she was imagining things or not, but she could swear she saw the heavy gold curtains at the windows move ever so slightly.