Manor House 04 - Dig Deep for Murder (13 page)

But it was too late now. It had always been too late, from the moment she'd discovered he was married. Per
haps it was just as well. Nevertheless, she would always carry an ache in her heart for what might have been.

Elizabeth awoke the next morning with a melancholy that seemed to follow her like a fog. Earl had seemed subdued when he'd said good night, and she had lain awake for hours before drifting into an uneasy sleep.

Somehow she managed to get through breakfast without Violet's sharp gaze perceiving her sour mood, and was cheered somewhat by her housekeeper's announcement that Sadie Buttons was her choice for the new maid. "The girl's got a mind like a steel trap," she said, with a light in her eyes that suggested she was ready for a challenge. "That could become a problem if I let it, but she's got stamina and a strong back, and seems really anxious to do the job. She's more than willing to do anything I ask. At least for now. I think she'll fit in very nicely down here. She's not like the rest of them, wishy-washy, wanting to know how much time they got off and turning their noses up when I mention cleaning the lavatories."

"I heartily agree with your decision. I'll leave it up to you to let the other two know our decision."

"I already have. They've had breakfast and are on their way back to London."

"Of course. I forgot how early the bus leaves." Elizabeth hesitated, then added, "Did Sadie happen to mention that she wanted to live here at the manor?"

"She did. I told her it would be up to you, of course, but if you ask me, I think it will be a good thing. She'd be instantly available that way, wouldn't she? After all, maids always used to live here in the old days."

"I agree. When will she be moving down here?"

"In the next day or two. Her room is all ready for her. Just as well, with Polly laid up. Did she say how long before she can come back to work?"

"A few days. She seemed anxious to come back to work."

"Didn't want you to notice how much she gets away
with in the office, I don't doubt," Violet said tartly, though Elizabeth could tell she was hugely relieved to hear that Polly wasn't badly hurt. "Anyway, we'll have a new maid now."

"Then that's settled," Elizabeth said, immensely relieved that at least one problem had been solved with reasonable ease. Even so, she couldn't shake the lethargy that plagued her.

Even the antics of George and Gracie failed to cheer her that morning as she romped with them on the lawn, and she returned to the house determined to dispel the uneasiness that would not let her relax.

She could not allow herself to mope around the office, however. Vowing to plunge herself into something that would take her mind off her personal problems, she concentrated on the thorny issue of Reggie Stewart's murder.

Somewhere in the back of her mind a question niggled, but she couldn't seem to pin it down. She needed to ask more questions, dig a little deeper. With that in mind, she rode her motorcycle down to the village and wound her way along the coast road to the Tudor Arms.

Alfie, the bartender, was setting up for the lunchtime trade when she arrived, and seemed surprised to see her. "Lady Elizabeth! This is a pleasant surprise!" He set a small glass of cream sherry on the counter. "Don't tell no one," he said with a sly wink. "There's still five minutes to go before opening time."

Elizabeth gazed longingly at the glass. "Well, it is a little early to be drinking sherry."

"Go on, your ladyship, live a little dangerously. It's wartime, after all, ain't it? Who knows how long we've got on this earth? Live for the moment, that's what I say. Tomorrow might never come."

"Well, it wouldn't do for all of us to think that way." The inviting fragrance of the sherry wafted by her nose. "Oh, well, why not?" She reached for the glass and lifted it to her lips.

"That's the spirit, m'm. A little bit of what you fancy does you good, I always say."

"Do you indeed?" Elizabeth murmured.

Alfie swiped at the counter with a damp cloth. "Anyway, what can I do you for?"

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows.

"Sorry, m'm, it's a phrase they keep using on
ITMA
—that new radio show. Stands for It's That Man Again."

"So I heard. It appears to be very popular."

"Oh, it is, m'm, I can tell you. It's good to get a laugh now and then on the radio. The news is always bad these days. I get so I'm afraid to turn it on sometimes."

"Yes, well, we do need to keep informed, Alfie. It wouldn't do to bury our heads in the sand and pretend there's no war going on."

"Bit hard to do that nowadays, what with all our blokes fighting overseas, and the pub full of foreigners. Can't understand half of what these Yanks say. Thought they was supposed to be talking English."

"We are probably just as difficult for them to understand." Elizabeth glanced at the clock on the wall above Alfie's head. "Is that the time? I must be off. There is one thing, though, I want to ask you before I go, Alfie."

"Thought so, m'm. You don't usually come in here unless you have something on your mind."

"I was just wondering if you remember seeing Reggie Stewart in here about a week ago. Captain Carbunkle said he saw him playing darts in the public bar."

Alfie wrinkled his face in thought. "Yeah, now I come to think of it, he
was
in here. Playing with old Fred Bickham, he was."

"Was it a friendly game?"

Alfie's gaze sharpened. "Friendly? I reckon it was. They left together, and they seemed like they was getting along all right. Tell you the truth, I was a bit surprised. Not many people got along with Reggie. Had a nasty temper, that one. And Fred, well, he's a bit of a loner. He
usually don't mix with the other blokes. I think that's the first time I ever saw him playing darts."

"Perhaps he was celebrating."

Alfie's eyes widened. "Celebrating? If he was, he didn't say nothing. Why, was it his birthday or something?"

Elizabeth sipped her sherry before answering. "I understand that Fred Bickham has moved to Ireland. He intends to live with his brother."

Alfie's surprise turned to amazement. "Go on! We talking about the same Fred? Far as I knew he didn't have no brother. He told me the only family he had left was a sister living in Devon, and she didn't talk to him no more."

Elizabeth set her glass carefully on the counter. "Really? Then I must be mistaken. Perhaps it was his birthday, after all."

"I tell you one thing," Alfie said, "they was both knocking them back that night. Weren't too steady, neither of them, by the time they left."

"Do you happen to know what time that was, thereabouts?"

Alfie grinned. "I can tell you the exact time, your ladyship. It was ten minutes to eleven by my clock." He jerked a thumb at the clock behind him. "See, Reggie asked me what time it was, just as they was leaving. Fred laughed at him. Said my clock was running five minutes fast. I told him it was his watch what was slow, but he said all the pubs run their clocks five minutes fast to get the customers out on time."

Elizabeth glanced at the clock. "Was he right?"

"Ah, that'd be telling, wouldn't it, m'm?"

"I suppose it would. Did you happen to see either Fred or Reggie after that night?"

Alfie tilted his head to one side. "Now that you mention it, m'm, I can't say as I've seen either one of them. They haven't been in here, that's for sure."

Elizabeth slid off her seat. "Well, I must be off. Thank you for the sherry, Alfie."

"Pleasure, m'm. Happy to serve you anytime." She was almost at the door when he added, "By the way, m'm, do the constables know who buried poor old Reggie in the garden?"

"Not yet, as far as I know."

"Strange business, that." Alfie shook his head. "I mean, if the guy died of a heart attack, why would someone bury him?"

"Probably because whoever had beaten him thought he'd killed him."

"Ah, that makes sense. Sort of panicked, I suppose."

Elizabeth sighed. "Something like that."

"Here, you don' think it was Fred, do you? He don't look strong enough to beat up a bloke like Reggie. Why, Reggie would have killed him with one hand tied behind his back. I'd lay odds on that."

"I have to admit," Elizabeth said, as she went out the door, "that same thought had occurred to me."

Henry Fenworth looked up when Elizabeth approached his desk, and smiled rather nervously as he rose to his feet. "Lady Elizabeth, how lovely to see you. To what do I owe this very distinct pleasure?"

Elizabeth sank onto the comfortable chair opposite him and waited for him to do likewise. When he was settled, she lowered her voice and said softly, "I have a rather delicate matter to discuss with you, Mr. Fenworth."

"Henry, please, your ladyship. There's no need to be so formal here at Westminster Bank." Henry pulled off his glasses and withdrew a large, white handkerchief from his top pocket. "I understand the nature of your concerns." With great vigor he began polishing his glasses with the handkerchief. "If you are here to ask for a loan, we shall have to consider very carefully—"

"Mr. Fenworth . . . Henry." Elizabeth leaned forward. "I'm afraid what I have to ask is of a more personal nature."

Henry stopped polishing. "Oh, really?"

"I have to ask you where you were and what you were doing a week ago last Saturday."

Henry's thin eyebrows twitched. He replaced his glasses and looked rather coldly at her. "May I respectfully ask, Lady Elizabeth, exactly what business it is of yours?"

Elizabeth smiled. "Well, of course, if you'd rather talk to the constables, I'm sure that can be arranged."

Henry narrowed his eyes. "I don't think that will be necessary. I have nothing to hide. A week ago last Saturday I was here at the bank until noon. When I left here, I drove immediately to North Horsham, where I met with a client. I dined at his home and left there shortly after midnight."

"And your client could verify that if asked?"

"Of course." Although Henry's frown appeared genuine, Elizabeth detected a certain wariness in his eyes. "May I ask why you want to know?"

"From what I can gather, Reggie Stewart was last seen that Saturday night. Which would suggest that was the night he was killed and buried in my vegetable plot."

"I understood he died of a heart attack."

"Brought on by a brutal beating."

"And you think I had something to do with it?"

"I am simply trying to eliminate possibilities."

"With respect, your ladyship, isn't that the job of the police?"

"Ostensibly, yes. In my position as lady of the manor, however, I feel obligated to offer my assistance in this unfortunate matter."

"I see." Henry's small eyes gleamed as he leaned back. "I can assure you, Lady Elizabeth, I am not a murderer, nor a thug who gives out thrashings. Nor would I be a part of any such atrocity. There is enough killing going on in the world right now as it is. I am a firm believer in peaceful methods of solving a problem."

"So you did have a problem to solve with Reggie Stewart?"

Henry visibly stiffened. "I have no idea what you mean."

"I'm referring to your relationship with Betty Stewart."

"Lady Elizabeth, you have gone beyond the bounds of human decency. I must ask you—"

"Are you going to deny that you were in Mrs. Stewart's house the night we arrived to inform her of her husband's death?" Elizabeth leaned forward and picked up the pipe smoldering in a large ashtray. "This does belong to you, does it not?"

Henry's face turned a deep red. "Lady Elizabeth, I—"

"It's quite all right, Henry. I believe your story." Elizabeth rose. "I don't believe you have it in you to beat a man to death. I sincerely hope, however, that you did not assist someone else in disposing of evidence."

"If you're asking if I helped Betty Stewart bury her husband," Henry said fiercely, "I can most assuredly tell you I did not."

"That's not what I was asking." Elizabeth glanced at the clock above the door. "But I appreciate your honesty." She rose, and crossed to the main door, feeling very satisfied with her little chat.

CHAPTER

10

Elizabeth's next visit was to the police station, where George sat behind the front desk, reading the newspaper. He hurriedly folded it and buried it under a stack of forms when Elizabeth entered.

"Good morning, your ladyship." He stumbled to his feet. "I was just thinking about you, I was."

"Really, George?" Elizabeth took her usual seat across from him and crossed her ankles. "I trust they were pleasant thoughts."

"Yes, m'm. They were. There's a bit in the newspaper here about the garden fete. Says here as how you're going to judge the talent contest." He unearthed the newspaper and held it out to her.

"The talent contest?" Elizabeth leaned forward to read the brief paragraph. "Well, so I am. I'm not sure what qualifications I have for judging talent, however."

"You just have to say what pleases you, m'm. That's
all." George puffed out his chest. "I have a bit of talent meself, I do."

"Really, George? I didn't know that."

"Oh, yes, m'm. I'm the best whistler in these parts. Ask anyone. They'll tell you."

Elizabeth frowned. "Whistler?"

"Yes, m'm. I can whistle. Like this." George threw back his head, pursed his lips, and emitted a shrill, earsplitting sound that crossed Elizabeth's eyes.

"Thank you, George," she said hastily. "That's very nice, but I do think you should save your breath for the talent contest."

"Oh, right, m'm. You will bear in mind that whistling is an art form? Takes a lot of talent to stay on key, it does."

"So I noticed." She tried not to wince. "Er . . . George, I wonder if you could answer a question that's been puzzling me lately."

George leaned back and tucked his thumbs behind his lapels. "Well, your ladyship, you understand it sort of depends on what the question might be."

"Yes, quite. I was just wondering, if someone beats a man, and that man then has a heart attack and dies, would that be construed as murder?"

"Aggravated murder, I would think. Yes, m'm. If you're talking about the case of Reggie Stewart's murder, that's what the inspector is calling it."