Manor House 04 - Dig Deep for Murder (10 page)

Remembering Polly's comments earlier, she said tentatively, "I think we have to use a little more diplomacy when interviewing these girls. Times have changed, and young women expect more respect from their employers. It's not like it was in my parents' day. Women don't consider themselves servants anymore, and don't want to be treated as such."

Violet sniffed. "All this mollycoddling . . . women in trousers, driving buses, building airplanes—where's it going to lead, that's what I want to know. It keeps on like this, we'll have a blinking woman running the country. Then what kind of mess would we all be in, I ask you?"

"Don't worry, Violet. Mr. Churchill would never allow a woman in Downing Street." Elizabeth let the door swing to behind her before Violet could answer.

Still mulling over the problem of finding a decent maid, she almost collided with a tall figure about to descend the stairs to the kitchen.

"Ah, I was hoping I'd find you here." Earl Monroe gave her one of his mesmerizing smiles. "This was my last resort. I've been looking all over the house for you."

Flustered by the warm rush of pleasure at the sight of him, Elizabeth started stuttering. "Oh, M-major! How nice
to see you! Is there something I can do for you?"

He took her by the elbow, flustering her even further, and led her into the front hallway. "The officers are giving a cocktail party on the base tomorrow evening," he said, without preamble. "I'd really like it if you would come."

"Oh!" Excitement made her breathless. "Well, how splendid! I'd very much like to come, Major. Thank you."

"Earl," he reminded her. "Remember our pact? There's no one around now to hear you call me by my first name—Elizabeth."

"Oh, right. I'm sorry, Earl. Force of habit, I suppose."

"So, how's the murder investigation going?"

She raised her eyebrows at him. "I really wouldn't know."

He grinned. "Cut the innocent act. You've been running around asking questions all over town."

She tried to look dignified, which was hard, considering that her insides quivered like jelly whenever she looked at him. "And how would you know that? Have you been spying on me?"

"Nope. But your motorbike's been missing for the last couple of days, so I figured you were hot on the track of the murderer."

"I could have been attending to my duties as lady of the manor. I do have responsibilities that have to be taken care of in the village."

"Were you?"

She had to smile. "You'd make a good detective, if you weren't so quick to jump to conclusions."

"Tell you what, you tell me you're not chasing after clues, and I'll surprise you with a gift."

She pursed her lips. "Much as I like gifts, I have to admit to maybe a question or two."

"I thought so." He poked a hand inside his uniform jacket and pulled out a small package. "I brought you a gift, anyway."

For some silly reason, she felt like crying. "For me? How very nice of you, Earl."

He nodded. "It was worth it to hear you call me Earl."

"I would have done that without a gift." She turned it over in her hands. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. I'll pick you up in front of the house tomorrow at six, okay?"

Before she could answer, he'd touched the brim of his cap with his fingers, turned smartly on his heel, and marched down the hall.

She was still unsettled as she approached the front door. So much so that she nearly jumped out of her skin when Martin materialized out of the shadows.

"Allow me, madam." He shuffled over to the door and lifted the heavy iron bar out of its slot.

"How long have you been there, Martin?" Elizabeth asked casually.

"Just a few moments, madam."

"Did you happen to see Major Monroe?"

He blinked at her over the top of his spectacles. Elizabeth often wondered why he bothered to wear them, since he never looked through them. "It is difficult to see anything these days," he said, "with all the blackout curtains shutting out the light."

"The curtains are not drawn yet, Martin."

"You don't say." He looked past her to where light spilled into the hallway from the library. "It's hard to tell. My eyes are not what they used to be."

"Which is why you should be looking through your glasses, not over them." Relieved that her butler had apparently missed her little encounter with the major, Elizabeth stepped through the door. "Martin, we're expecting three young ladies this afternoon. They'll be applying for the job of housemaid. Please show them down to the kitchen when they arrive."

"Yes, Madam. Violet has already advised me of their arrival."

"Thank you, Martin."

"Not at all, madam." Just as the door closed behind her.
she heard him add, "I trust you will enjoy the major's gift, madam."

Ruefully she looked down at the package in her hand. She'd forgotten she was holding it. Tucking it into her pocket, she smiled and ran down the steps.

A few minutes later she arrived at the door of Betty Stewart's house, just in time to see Henry Fenworth coming through the gate.

He gave quite a guilty start when he saw her, and tipped his bowler rather hastily. "Hello again, Lady Elizabeth." He looked back over his shoulder to where Betty Stewart stood at the door. " I . . . er . . . had some business to attend to with Mrs. Stewart. Quite forgot about it this morning. Thought I'd save her the trouble of coming back into town."

"How considerate of you, Mr. Fenworth," Elizabeth said gravely.

"Quite, quite. Well, good day to you, your ladyship." Once more he doffed his bowler, then climbed into a smart little motorcar and roared off up the street.

Betty hovered by the door as Elizabeth walked up the path. "It was so nice of the gentleman to go out of his way," she said, stepping back to allow Elizabeth to enter. "He's really accommodating, for a bank manager."

"So it would seem." Elizabeth stood for a moment in the parlor, adjusting her sight. From some distance away, she heard Caesar bark. He sounded as if he was in the back garden.

"Oh, do please sit down, your ladyship." Betty plumped up a tapestry cushion on the couch. "I've put the kettle on, and I'll make us a nice cup of tea."

"Very good of you," Elizabeth murmured. She waited until Betty had hurried out of the room, then sat down and took a good look around. As before, the place looked clean and tidy. Either the robber had not disturbed very much while he was ransacking the place, or Betty had accomplished a thorough job of tidying up after him.

Everything looked much as it had the last time she was
there. Except the pipe appeared to be missing from its stand on the little table. Elizabeth stared at the wall opposite her. A small rectangle of wallpaper appeared lighter than the rest of the wall, as if something had been covering it. Something that was no longer there.

Elizabeth averted her gaze as Betty returned, carrying a small tray that she set down on the table next to the pipe stand. Handing a steaming cup of tea to Elizabeth, she asked quietly, "One or two?"

"Two, please." Feeling somewhat guilty, Elizabeth watched her spoon sugar into her cup. "Thank you. Most kind, I'm sure." She lifted the cup from its saucer and tasted the tea, then set them down. "Betty, I heard that your house was broken into last night. I wanted to say how sorry I am. On top of everything you've gone through lately, this latest calamity must seem overwhelming."

"It was a shock, yes." Betty sat winding her apron string around her finger. "Thank goodness I wasn't home at the time. I don't know what I would have done if I'd been here all alone."

"Surely your dog would have protected you?"

"Caesar?" Betty uttered a harsh laugh. "Take one step toward that dog, and he's off with his tail between his legs. No flipping watchdog, I can tell you."

"Then it's just as well you weren't here." Elizabeth took a biscuit from the plate Betty offered her. "Thank you." She glanced at the wall. "I hope you didn't lose anything too valuable in the robbery."

"Not really. Mostly clothes and food. Though he did take me mad money out of the dresser drawer, the sod. I was saving up to buy a new dress for the garden fete."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Elizabeth looked at the wall again. "I couldn't help noticing the light patch on the wall."

"Oh, that." Betty stared at it as if seeing it for the first time. "It was a photo of Reggie. Had a thick, solid silver frame. Weighed a ton, it did. The thief must have thought he could hock it at the pawnshop."

"No doubt. I don't suppose you have any idea who the robber might have been? My housekeeper believes that food has been stolen from her larder. It could well have been the same person."

Betty's face registered surprise. "Imagine that. Sorry, your ladyship, I haven't got the slightest idea who would want to steal from me. None at all."

"Well, I suppose we shall have to leave it up to the constables to find out who was responsible."

"It was kind of you to come down, Lady Elizabeth." Betty tugged at the string tangled around her finger.

"Not at all. Tell me, when is the funeral? I'd like to attend."

Betty gave her a strange look. "That's so kind of you. Reggie would have liked that. Not too many people took to my Reggie. He wasn't an easy man to get along with, that's for sure."

"He seemed to get along quite well with Fred Bickham."

Betty's start of surprise was visible. "Fred who?"

"Bickham. He lives—or he did do—at the other end of the village. I believe he's gone to Ireland now to live with his brother. I understand he was quite friendly with your husband, however. They played darts together at the Tudor Arms."

"He never mentioned nothing about him to me. But then again, he was usually drunk by the time he came home from the pub. I never got any sense out of him then."

"So you weren't aware of any real friendship between the two men?"

Betty's laugh was devoid of humor. "I don't think Reggie had a real friend in the entire world. He was a mean man. Mean and nasty."

"Still, it must be hard for you, losing your husband. Sometimes a poor companion can be better than none at all."

"Begging you pardon, m'm, but I have to disagree. This
is the first time I've had any peace in years." Betty drained the last of her tea and set the cup down rather hard. "Besides, I'll be starting work at the factory next week. I'll have plenty of company then."

Nodding, Elizabeth rose. "Well, I wish you luck in your new job." She walked toward the door, then paused, waiting for Betty to open it for her. "By the way, I don't think you told me when the funeral is being held."

"Oh, no, I didn't." Betty's expression was completely without emotion. "It's on Monday. Ten o'clock."

"I'll be there." Elizabeth stepped outside, grateful for the warm sun on her back. "I'll see you at the church, then."

"Yes, your ladyship. Thank you."

"No," Elizabeth said softly. "Thank you."

Betty looked confused for a moment, then closed the door with a decisive thump.

Elizabeth stared at the door for a long moment, then walked slowly down the path and out the gate. From there she could see the back garden of the cottage next door. A line of multicolored washing flapped in the breeze while Joan Plumstone pinned a floral apron to the line.

Elizabeth hesitated for a moment, then made up her mind. A few seconds later she rounded the wall of the cottage and came upon Joan still pegging up the damp clothes. The woman spun around at the sound of her voice.

"Lady Elizabeth! You quite startled me. I didn't hear you coming."

"I do apologize." Elizabeth nodded at the washing. "I can see you're busy. Perhaps this isn't a good time."

"I always have time for visitors such as yourself." Joan picked up the empty washing basket. "Can I offer you a cup of tea?"

"Oh, no, thank you. I won't be more than a moment or two." Elizabeth gestured at Betty Stewart's cottage. "I've just been talking to your neighbor. She tells me her house was broken into last night."

Joan tutted. "Don't know what the world's coming to, I don't. The war is making villains of us all, I swear. Makes you afraid to step outside your door, it does."

"Yes, well, at least he doesn't seem to be a violent man. Just hungry, by the sound of it. He took mostly food and clothes."

"So I heard." Joan carried the basket to her back door. "Still, it's frightening to think someone can just walk into your house and take what he wants."

Elizabeth followed her. "Betty said he took a photograph of her husband from the wall. How sad, considering the poor man has just died."

"Oh, I don't think Betty's too broken up by it, if you ask me." Joan sent a furtive glance at the neighboring cottage. "They were never happy, you know. Slept in separate bedrooms. Betty wouldn't have him in her bed. She told me she couldn't stand him near her, 'cause of the coal dust. Said he was always filthy. I bet she's glad that thief took that picture. She always hated it. It was taken when Reggie won the hundred-yard dash at the North Horsham races. Proud as a peacock of that, he was. Always bragging about it. Drove Betty crazy, it did. She said that photo was the only thing he cared about in the whole world."

"Really," Elizabeth murmured. "How interesting." She realized Joan was staring at her, and added hastily, "Well, I really must run along. I just wanted to make sure you knew about the robbery and to warn you to lock your doors at night. We can't be too careful nowadays."

"Don't I know it." Joan heaved the empty basket higher on her hip. "Thank you for stopping by, your ladyship."

"Not at all." Conscious of the time fleeting by, Elizabeth hurried back to her motorbike. The applicants for the position of housemaid would be arriving any minute.

As she sailed up the hill toward the manor, she turned over in her mind Joan's comments about the photograph that had been stolen. Or perhaps it hadn't been stolen at all.

So far, the murder weapon had not been found. Was it possible that a simple framed photograph could have done that much damage to Reggie's face?

She rather doubted it. It could, however, have started a fight that became ugly, perhaps getting broken in the process and causing tempers to escalate. The question was, if Reggie did die of a heart attack caused by the beating, would it still be a case of murder? If not, it might be possible to get a confession, once she was sure of the identity of the person responsible.