Berried Alive (Manor House Mystery) (17 page)

"It's not the major, is it?"

Sadie's eyebrows shot skyward. "Major Monroe? Crikey, I should hope not. Her ladyship would have me guts for garters if I went anywhere near him." She danced over to the door. "Mind you, I'm not saying I wouldn't mind a turn around the mulberry bush with that one. Bit of all right, he is." Laughing, she went through the door and closed it behind her.

Polly sat frowning in frustration at the closed door. Sadie was keeping something from her, she could tell. What was the matter with everyone lately? What with Marlene keeping secrets and now Sadie, it seemed as if everyone else knew something she didn't.

It was bad enough that Sadie was hiding stuff from her, but when Marlene did it, that really hurt. Her own sister didn't trust her enough to tell her what was bothering her. Well, all right. She'd had enough. Tonight, before she went out with Sam, she was going to corner Marlene and demand to know what it was she was hiding. One way or another she was going to find out.

Having made up her mind on that score, Polly looked down at the ledger. An anguished cry burst from her lips when she saw the large blot of ink that had dripped onto
the page. Thanks to Sadie and her secrets, she'd forgotten to shake her pen.

Carefully she used the corner of the blotter to soak up the offending bubble of ink. The whole page was spoilt. Now she'd have to write in the figures above the blot so as Lady Elizabeth could read them.

If it wasn't for her evening out with Sam, she'd bang her head against the wall. But then she only had to think about sitting in the dark cinema with his arm around her, and the whole world turned brighter. What did a blot of ink matter, when the one man who could make her truly happy was waiting to take her out? That's what really mattered. Nothing else. Absolutely nothing.

Having found out from Violet that Vera Stutworth worked at the wool shop in the High Street, that afternoon found Elizabeth again roaring into town on her motorcycle.

She parked it outside the town hall, where she could keep a fairly good eye on it, and crossed the street to the tiny shop that housed enough knitting wool to keep every woman in the village busy for years.

Knitting for the country's fighting men had become a large part of the war effort. Nearly every household had at least one woman sitting by the wireless at night busily clicking away with her knitting needles. Socks, gloves, jumpers, scarves and cardigans were turned out in huge numbers and sent overseas in the hopes of bringing some small measure of comfort to the armed forces.

Rita's Housewives League had achieved some splendid results with their knitting nights, while no doubt burning the ears of various villagers with their gossip. While Elizabeth, along with many residents of Sitting Marsh, viewed the
league with wry amusement, she could not fault their contributions to a good cause.

She was not totally surprised to see Rita Crumm lurking inside the wool shop. In fact, had Elizabeth not been so intent on asking Vera a few questions, she would have returned to her motorcycle and delayed her visit until the coast was clear.

In any case, she was a little too late to retreat. Rita must have already spied her crossing the street. Her hunch proved correct. The woman was staring expectantly at the door when Elizabeth pushed it open with a loud jangling of the bell.

A very flustered young lady behind the counter greeted her, her words tumbling over themselves as she fumbled for the correct address.

Rita, on the other hand, had no such trouble. "Lady Elizabeth! I had no idea you could knit."

Somehow she'd managed to convey that Elizabeth was completely incapable of mastering such an intricate task. Elizabeth smiled sweetly at the young girl, who had finally managed to get out a breathless, "Good afternoon, your ladyship."

"Vera, isn't it? I believe we met some time ago. How are your parents? Well, I hope?"

"Very well, thank you, m'm." Vera looked as if she were about to faint.

Apparently annoyed at being ignored, Rita said loudly, "So what are you knitting then, Lady Elizabeth? A scarf?" Which was all Elizabeth could possibly manage, her tone implied.

"Actually I'm thinking of knitting a man's cardigan," Elizabeth said evenly. She reached out to finger a skein of maroon wool. "In double-cable stitch, with a purl border
and ribbed hem." Once more she smiled at Vera. "Do you have a pattern for something like that?"

"I think so, m'm." Vera hurried out from behind the counter and paused in front of a shelf stocked with knitting patterns.

Well aware that double cable was a difficult stitch to master, Elizabeth beamed at Rita. "I do adore a challenge. Plain knitting can be so boring, don't you think?"

Rita looked as if she'd sucked a lemon. Picking up a large paper bag bulging with skeins in a variety of colors, she said stiffly, "Well, I wish you luck with your project. I shall look forward to seeing the completed garment."

"I'll be happy to show it to you," Elizabeth promised shamelessly, even though she knew she'd never have the patience to knit a cable-stitch cardigan. A year ago she'd started a plain jumper for Earl, and still had only completed the front and half the back. There were still the two sleeves to knit, as well as the neckband. She really needed to finish it, she chided herself. Perhaps in time to give it to him for a Christmas present.

Lost in a vision of presenting the finished jumper to him and imagining his response, she gave a start when Vera thrust a knitting pattern at her. "Here, your ladyship. Will this one do?"

Elizabeth peered at the picture on the front. It really was a very handsome cardigan. She could just see Earl wearing it, strolling with the dogs along the cliffs, sitting in the rocker in the conservatory while they laughed over something silly, or smiling at her across the dining room table, his vibrant gray-blue eyes intent on her face.

"I'll take it," she said abruptly. "And the wool as well. I like this color." She held up a skein of the maroon wool.

"Yes, m'm. I won't be a minute. I have to fetch some more from the back room."

Elizabeth gazed around the crowded shelves while she waited for Vera to reappear. Wool in every texture and color imaginable was crammed into the cramped spaces. Baby wool in pinks, blues, and the palest of yellow was stacked above a vivid array of purple, lavender, royal blue, holly red, kelly green, and the brightest rose pink imaginable.

Steel knitting needles from the slimmest number sixteen to the fattest number one sat above glass boxes of buttons in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Fascinating. Elizabeth caught sight of a polished ebony button that would look marvelous on the cardigan.

The chances of her attempting to actually knit the cardigan were remote, to say the least, nevertheless she felt compelled to purchase the buttons.

She waited until Vera had placed her purchases in a bag and had given her the change from her five pound note before saying lightly, "I bumped into Mr. Adelaide from the dairy farm this morning. He tells me you were a good friend of his daughter Barbara."

The young lady's pretty eyes clouded. "Yes, m'm. We were ever such good friends. I couldn't believe it when she died. I still miss her."

"I'm sure you do. Such a terrible loss at such a young age."

Elizabeth picked up her bag. "Did you ever meet her boyfriend? Ah, Buddy I think his name was?"

Vera nodded, her lips tightening. "No good, he was. Didn't care tuppence for Barbara. He just wanted a good time. I kept telling her that, but she wouldn't listen. It was all his fault. I knew he'd get her into trouble."

"I see. What a shame." Elizabeth moved toward the door. "I seem to remember seeing her with him. He had red hair, didn't he?"

Vera looked surprised. "No, m'm. Jet black hair, he had. Black eyes. Looked like he'd been sitting in the sun all the time. He was good-looking all right, but I never do trust the good-looking ones. They only want one thing, and they don't have no trouble getting it from some of the girls." She seemed to remember then to whom she was talking. "Sorry, m'm. I shouldn't be talking like that."

Elizabeth smiled. She liked Vera, she decided. Dick Adelaide was wrong about the girl. She was no slut. "Well, I'm sorry that you lost a good friend. They are hard to find."

"Yes, m'm. They certainly are."

Outside the shop, Elizabeth's smile faded. So Barbara Adelaide's boyfriend did not have red hair. It would seem her theory about Dick Adelaide looking for vengeance was wrong, after all. Which brought her back to the three musketeers. Unless it was simply a coincidence that all four men who died had red hair. Somehow, she just couldn't accept that. There had to be a connection somewhere. What was she missing?

The thing to do was find out if any of the airmen involved in the fight last night had red hair. That might strengthen the notion that the color of the victim's hair was significant. Maybe Earl would know, or at least he could find out for her. She'd have to ask him.

In a hurry now to get back to the Manor House, she threw the bag into the sidecar. The board with the nails was still in there, too. She'd decided not to hand it over to George after all. If it should turn out to be evidence, she would give it to Earl to hand over to the American authorities. Though not right now. Obviously the Americans were
not treating the incidents as seriously as she was, and until she had more proof, she'd just as soon not let them know she was investigating the problem.

In the meantime, she had her evening with Earl to look forward to, and for the time being, everything else ceased to matter. She intended to spend every moment completely focused on him, and everything else could wait until tomorrow. She could only hope that Sadie's evening was uneventful and perhaps even enjoyable. She didn't want anything to spoil this evening. Nothing at all.

CHAPTER

12

That evening Elizabeth regarded herself in the full-length mirror attached to the door of her wardrobe. She'd picked out a soft silk frock in royal blue with a heart-shaped neckline trimmed in tiny seed pearls. She'd fastened around her throat the double rows of pearls that had belonged to her mother, adding a sophisticated touch befitting the occasion. A light dash of lipstick, a final flick of a comb through her unbound hair, and she was ready.

She felt as if she were floating down the stairs to the dining room, her heart fluttering like leaves in the wind. She was halfway down when she realized that the front door was ajar. Martin's frail figure, jammed in the narrow opening, hid the visitor from view.

Wondering why he hadn't opened the door all the way,
she continued down the stairs, expecting any minute to see Earl appear in the doorway. Martin was speaking in a low, urgent voice, as if afraid to be overheard.

Elizabeth sensed he wasn't talking to Earl after all, and crossed the entrance, curious to know the identity of the visitor. As she approached, she heard Martin mumbling and strained to hear the words.

"I would dearly love to invite you in, but I'm afraid your presence would arouse the wrath of Violet, and I'm quite sure madam would not approve."

A female voice answered him, her words muffled and indistinct.

"I would very much like to do that," Martin said, "but I'm at a loss as to how I would get there. It's too far to walk, I haven't ridden a bicycle in a good many years and short of pilfering madam's infernal bicycle machine I really have no way of—"

He broke off as Elizabeth reached him, apparently sensing her presence. Guilt was evident in his expression when he turned to her. "Good evening, madam. Please excuse me, I didn't hear you come down."

He still held the door partially closed, arousing Elizabeth's curiosity even further. "You have a visitor, Martin?"

The butler looked even more flustered. "No, madam, that is . . ."

"Yes, he does," the female voice answered firmly. "Good evening, Lady Elizabeth."

Martin swallowed, coughed, then very reluctantly, opened the door wider.

A rather dowdy woman stood on the doorstep, wearing glasses that looked remarkably like the ones Martin had lost. She clutched a large shopping bag to her chest, holding
on to it as if in fear it would be stolen. "I'm Beatrice Carr," the woman said with a faint note of defiance. "I'm a very dear friend of Martin's."

"That's . . . er . . . not exactly . . . er . . . " Martin's voice trailed off helplessly.

"It's all right, Martin." Elizabeth smiled at the woman. She had heard Violet mention Beatrice Carr on more than one occasion. Something about selling raffle tickets, if she remembered correctly. "Won't you come in?"

"Thank you, your ladyship." Beatrice moved closer to the door.

Martin, who appeared to be paralyzed with shock, still stood in her way.

Elizabeth gently prodded him until he moved backward.

Beatrice stepped inside the hallway, her eyes widening as she looked around. "Gracious, this is really posh." She peered up at the chandelier above her head. "That's awfully pretty, your ladyship."

"Thank you." Elizabeth turned to her speechless butler. "Martin, you may receive Miss Carr—"

"Mrs. Carr," Beatrice corrected. "Widowed, of course."

"Of course!" Martin shouted hoarsely, having finally found his voice.

Beatrice gave him a look from under her sparse eyelashes that was utterly coy.

Martin dissolved into a fit of coughing that quite alarmed Elizabeth. She patted him on the back, while Beatrice continued to gaze around the hallway with a rather wistful look of enchantment on her lined face.

Martin finally recovered his breath and ceased coughing.

Elizabeth tried again. "As I was saying, Martin, you may receive Mrs. Carr in the library. I'll have Sadie bring up a pot of tea."

"Oh, I really can't stay, m'm," Beatrice said quickly. "I have to catch the bus back to North Horsham in a few minutes. I just came to bring Martin his raffle tickets, and then I'm off. I invited him to a social at our Women's Volunteers' club, but he says he can't get there."

"I don't think madam cares to hear about my predicament," Martin said stiffly.