Manor House 01 - A Bicycle Built for Murder (8 page)

Winnie's face puckered again. "Thank you, m'm. I'm much obliged. And so will my Stan be, when he hears." Her voice wavered off into another bout of weeping, and it took Elizabeth several minutes and another good measure of brandy before she felt comfortable enough to leave the poor woman alone with her grief.

Upon her return to the mansion, she had to wait several minutes before Martin managed to get the door open. "Sorry, madam," he wheezed. "I had to find my glasses before I answered the bell."

Elizabeth didn't have the heart to tell him that until he learned to look through them, the absence of his glasses was no appreciable impediment. "That's all right, Martin. Has Polly arrived yet?"

"Yes, madam. I do believe she's in the dining room with Violet."

Elizabeth stepped into the cool fragrance of the entrance hall. "Has anyone rung today?" She'd rather expected Major Monroe to have called by now, letting her know exactly when he planned to move in his men.

"Rung, madam?" Martin looked confused.

She waited until he had struggled to close the door before explaining. "The telephone, Martin. Did anyone ring with a message?"

Martin tucked a finger under his nose and dug in his pocket. His sneeze exploded about the same time he dragged a handkerchief from his pocket. After several moments of fumbling, he managed to blow his nose and return the handkerchief to his pocket. "I do beg your pardon, madam. Most rude of me."

"No one can help sneezing," Elizabeth assured him. She decided to give up asking him about the telephone. Violet would tell her if there was a message for her. As she turned toward the library, however, Martin said crossly, "If you are referring to those blasted contraptions in the kitchen and the study, I should like you to know there is something wrong with them."

Elizabeth paused. "There is? Oh, dear. Does Violet know that?"

"Dratted things keep making the most dreadful noise, jangling and clanging. I keep hearing them go off like fire engines. They must be broken. Nothing makes a noise like that unless it's broken."

Elizabeth sighed. "Martin, I've explained all that to you so many times. The telephone is supposed to make a noise. That's to let you know wherever you are in the house that someone wants to speak to you."

"In my day, madam, when someone wished to pay a call, they came to the house. They did not hide behind silly contraptions that make enough noise to wake the dead."

"Yes, well, things have changed, Martin, and we shall just have to get used to them."

"Change, change, that's all I hear nowadays." Martin began his agonizing shuffle toward the kitchen stairs. "What with people dashing around in motorized carriages, mechanical machines spitting bullets from the sky, Germans floating out of them with white umbrellas, and cowboys herding their cows all over the lawn and gardens, the whole world is rapidly going to pot, that's what I say."

Elizabeth felt sorry for him. In his confused state of mind, every minor irritation must seem like a catastrophe. Heaven knows what he'd do if they were invaded. Of
course, if the Germans did invade Britain, people like Martin would be instantly eradicated. The Germans would have no use for anyone who could not pull his weight in their philistine vision of a new world.

She started as voices loudly erupted from the dining room. Recognizing Polly's shrill tones overlaying Violet's harsh commands, she hurried to intervene.

Polly stood at one end of the long, narrow room, feather duster in hand, while Violet paced up and down by the window. Both women were shouting at once, and Elizabeth had to raise her voice to be heard. Once a tense silence was restored, she looked at Violet. Two red spots burned in her housekeeper's cheeks, and her jaw jutted at a dangerous angle.

"I have never heard such insolence in all my life," she declared. "I don't know what the world is coming to, really I don't. When I was growing up, children were to be seen and not heard."

"When you were growing up, there were still bloody dinosaurs running around," Polly said rudely.

"That's enough, Polly!"

The sharp reprimand from Elizabeth got the girl's attention. She looked sulkily down at her foot and swished the duster over her shoe. "I'm doing the best I can. I don't have to work here, you know. I could get a job in the factory. They're crying out for workers down there."

"You're not old enough to work in the factory," Violet said, glaring at the hapless girl. "Nor intelligent enough, if you want my opinion."

"No one asked for your bloody opinion—" Polly began hotly, and once more Elizabeth intervened.

"Polly, go to the library and wait for me there."

For a moment it seemed as if she would refuse, then,
with a last baleful glare at Violet, she flounced from the room.

Elizabeth took the weight off her feet on the nearest chair. "What on earth was that all about?"

Violet shook her head and clicked her tongue. "That Polly, she'll be the death of me, that she will. Just because I told her she weren't to go nowhere near the Yanks when they got here. You'd have thought I'd told her to cut off her fingers, the way she carried on."

Elizabeth frowned. "Why can't she go near the Americans?"

"I should have thought that was obvious. We can't trust neither her nor them Yanks, that's why."

"I think we have to trust them. We can't take care of them without Polly's help. Unless you're prepared to pick up and clean up after them."

"What, me?" Violet tossed her head. "I have enough to do in the kitchen and whatnot, without running around after a bunch of bloody heathens."

Elizabeth's patience snapped. "Violet, I do wish you would stop referring to the Americans as if they were all brought up in caves. Those young men are risking their lives every day to help save our country from being taken over by the Germans. Every time a group of them take those airplanes up in the air, some of them don't come back. Most of them are barely old enough to drink. Imagine how you would feel if one of them were your son. The very least we can do is treat them with respect and consideration. We need the Americans. I don't think I have to remind you what would happen to us if England loses this war."

Violet puffed out her cheeks, looked as if she were about to argue, then let out her breath. "What is it, Lizzie? Are you all right? Did something happen?"

"Yes, I'm afraid something did happen." Elizabeth paused to take a deep breath. She felt ridiculously close to tears but wasn't quite sure why. "Beryl Pierce is dead. Her body washed up on the beach this morning."

"Oh, my dear Lord." Violet clutched her throat. "That poor child. And poor Winnie Pierce. She must be heartbroken. Does her husband know? How dreadful. I must get down there and see her."

"That would be nice, Violet. I'm sure she could use some company right now, and I have to go down to the police station this afternoon. I need to talk to George."

"My word, I bet he's all of a tizwoz. This is the biggest thing to happen to him since Walter Clapham got drunk and smashed all the windows in the town hall with a cricket bat. What do they think happened, then? Lost her way in the dark, I suppose. Not surprising, her riding that bicycle at night without a light. Never could understand how she could see where she was going. Course, a young girl like her hasn't got no right riding around late at night like that. If I were her mother—"

"Violet."

"Yes?"

"I do hope you'll keep your opinions to yourself when you see Winnie."

"Well, of course I will. I'll go down there this afternoon. Right after dinner. Polly can do the washing up for me. Speaking of which, I'd better get the dinner on. You haven't forgotten that Polly's waiting for you in the library, have you?"

"No, I haven't." Elizabeth got slowly to her feet. "Oh, by the way, Martin said the telephone rang while I was out."

"Oh, yes, it did. Forgot all about it, didn't I. It was that major from the American base. Said to tell you he'll
be over first thing in the morning to talk about the arrangements for moving his men in to the Manor House."

Elizabeth felt a small quiver in the pit of her stomach. "Yes, all right, Violet. Thank you."

"Not at all, Lizzie. That's what I'm here for, isn't it." Violet gave her a sharp look, then headed out of the door, much to Elizabeth's relief.

She really had to stop these silly nerves whenever Major Monroe's name was mentioned, she told herself as she walked reluctantly down the hallway to deal with her rebellious maid. There would be enough to put up with once the men were billeted in the house without her having a fit every time she came in contact with their commanding officer.

Polly sat on the floor in front of the bookshelves, a book open on her lap. She closed it hurriedly when Elizabeth entered, then hoisted herself to her feet.

Elizabeth felt vaguely surprised. She didn't think there was anything on those shelves that would be remotely of interest to her maid. "I really don't want to hear you answering Violet back like that," she said as Polly replaced the book. "She is in charge of this house, and you must remember that."

"Yes, m'm." Polly looked suitably contrite.

"If you have any problems with her orders, you come to me, all right? Yelling and screaming at her like that only makes things more difficult."

"Yes, m'm."

"I know you'll have extra work when the Americans move in, but—"

"Oh, I don't mind that, honest I don't, Lady Elizabeth." Polly gazed up at her with earnest eyes. "I'll be happy to take care of them Yanks. It will be my duty, like, won't it. I'll be doing my bit for the war effort."

"Well, yes, I suppose so . . ."

"It were just that Violet said as how I wasn't to go near the Yanks, and that upset me. Like she didn't trust me or something."

"I'm sure she does trust you, Polly. She's just trying to protect you, that's all. Not that she has anything to protect you from," Elizabeth added hurriedly. "I'm quite sure the American officers are all perfect gentlemen."

"Yes, m'm. I expect they are." Polly's face seemed to glow with excitement. "It will be lovely having them here, Lady Elizabeth. They can get all sorts of things from the base. Cigarettes and whiskey and nylons and everything."

Elizabeth felt a twinge of anxiety. "Well, I really don't think we can expect anything like that. I sincerely hope you won't pester them, Polly."

"Oh, no, m'm. I wouldn't dream of it. Honest."

Elizabeth wished she could feel confident about that. "Well, run along, then, Polly. Violet probably needs your help in the kitchen."

"Yes, m'm. Thank you, m'm." Polly rushed to the door, then looked back over her shoulder. "And don't you worry about them Yanks, neither, Lady Elizabeth. I'll take really good care of them, you'll see." She disappeared, and Elizabeth could hear her humming all the way down the hallway. She wondered uneasily why that sounded so ominous.

After struggling through a plate of Violet's leftover stew, in which the lack of meat had been heavily supplemented with potatoes and bread, Elizabeth left the house and rode her motorcycle down to the town. She had rung George earlier to make sure he was there, though she wasn't sure how much he would tell her.

The rain had stopped, and several housewives had ven
tured out to do some shopping when she reached the High Street. A long queue of them waited outside Harold's, the greengrocer's, probably in the hopes of ensnaring one of the oranges that made all too rare an appearance these days. Every one of them waved at her as she sailed by.

Elizabeth parked her motorcycle next to the bicycles in the rack outside the police station, then pushed open the glass-fronted door. Sid Goffin's voice echoed from the back room. His anguished tones always sounded to Elizabeth as if he had a finger caught in a meat grinder.

George sat at the front desk and glanced up as she walked in. Without his police helmet, he looked like a benevolent monk. He was completely bald except for a thin strip of silvery hair that circled the back of his head. His round face bore few wrinkles, considering his advanced age, and with his bulging belly he reminded Elizabeth of a jolly Father Christmas, only without the whiskers.

There was nothing jolly about his expression, however, when he rose smartly to his feet and offered her a chair. He waited until she'd settled herself, then said carefully, "How can I help you, Lady Elizabeth?"

"It's about Beryl Pierce," she said, coming straight to the point. "I was wondering if there are any new developments. I'd like to know as many details as you can tell me."

She knew the instant she saw the change in his expression that there was more to Beryl's death than a simple accident. The trick, of course, was to get him to tell her what he knew. It would probably take all the diplomacy and tact she could muster. She could only hope she was up to the challenge.

CHAPTER
7

"I don't know as how I can tell you much at all, m'm," George said stiffly, "seeing as how it's police business, that is. I really can't tell you anything until I've spoken with the mother of the deceased and the next of kin have been properly informed."

"I understand, George." Elizabeth peeled off her white gloves. "You know how fast gossip circulates in the village. Everyone has their own ideas of what happened to the poor child. I just thought it would be nice if I could put their minds to rest." She looked the constable straight in the eye. "We don't want to start a panic in the village, do we."

"Panic, m'm? I'm not sure I rightly know what you mean by that."

"There are some people who might think that Beryl was pushed over that cliff. They might even start putting the blame on the Americans."

"Well, m'm, human nature, isn't it. Seems to me, people will always find someone else to blame, and the Yanks are not exactly popular in the village. Ted Wilkins told me he has to throw a couple of them out of the Tudor Arms just about every night for causing an uproar with the British soldiers."

"And our soldiers are not in the least to blame, of course," Elizabeth said tartly.

George shrugged. "No doubt they do their share of aggravating. Boys will be boys, after all. Pardon me saying so, m'm, but I don't think there's much we can do about it. Them Yanks are going to get the blame for just about everything that happens around here, no matter who started it first."