Manor House 04 - Dig Deep for Murder (16 page)

"Well, at least it wasn't a disaster. But things really haven't changed that much. There are still fights at the pub, skirmishes on the streets, and a general feeling of animosity toward the Americans. Among the men in particular."

"I reckon there isn't much we can do to change that. Any time you have a bunch of strangers coming into town and making passes at your women, you're going to get sore at them."

"Especially when they are more attractive, more exciting, and better paid than the average British soldier. I suppose it must be frightfully frustrating for them."

"If I were in their shoes, I'd be out there busting their faces, too."

It was her turn to laugh. "Why, Major, I was under the impression that you were a pacifist."

"Wherever did you get that idea?"

"I . . . don't know. Just an opinion I'd formed, I suppose." Unsettled, she politely smothered a yawn. "I had better go in or Martin will be out here with a big stick, ready to defend my honor."

Earl chuckled and swung himself out of his seat. In a few quick strides he rounded the rear of the jeep and opened her door for her. "You can tell Martin your honor is still intact."

"I'll do that." She smiled up at him, wishing she could see well enough to read his eyes. "Thank you, Earl. It was a delightful evening. One I shall remember for a long time."

"You're entirely welcome. It was my pleasure." Standing close to her, he touched the peak of his cap with his fingers. "Good night, Elizabeth."

Aware of him watching her, she climbed the steps. She was almost at the top when he said softly, "Exciting and attractive, huh?"

Smiling, she turned to look at his shadowy figure. "Most assuredly, Major."

He didn't answer, but she knew he was grinning as he returned to the jeep and noisily drove away.

Still smiling, she reached for the bell pull, then snatched her hand back. It was late, and both Martin and Violet were no doubt fast asleep. Hoping that Violet hadn't locked the kitchen door, as she'd suggested, Elizabeth made her way around the massive stone wall of the manor and hurried past the greenhouses to the kitchen yard.

To her relief, the door opened at the turn of the handle, and she stepped into the warm kitchen, blinking to adjust her sight to the dim light of the furnace. As she did so, she heard a scuffling sound from the larder, the door of which stood open.

Her immediate thought was that rats were responsible, and she looked around for the broom that Violet kept standing by the fireplace. Crossing the room, she snatched it up and advanced on the larder. At least that would solve one of the mysteries. If there were rats in there, that would no doubt answer the question of the missing food.

With her foot she edged the door open wider. Something had been rummaging around in there, that much was
obvious. On the shelf below the window several packages and a bag of flour had been overturned. A tin of soup lay on its side, still rolling gently back and forth.

After inspecting the minuscule room for vermin, Elizabeth rested the broomstick against the wall. She hadn't really expected to see a rat in there. Rats might well be bold and adventurous when hungry and seeking food, but she had yet to see one that could open a window and climb out of it to escape.

At breakfast the next morning, Elizabeth was disconcerted when Martin, after much wheezing and groaning with the effort of seating himself, inquired, "I trust that blasted American behaved himself last night, madam?"

Violet spun around so sharply her elbow whipped a saucepan off the counter. The dogs barked and rushed around as the pot bounced and rolled across the tiled floor. By the time order had been restored, Elizabeth had collected herself enough to meet Violet's sharp gaze without flinching.

"What blasted American?" the housekeeper demanded, bringing two bowls of porridge to the table. "What's the old goat talking about now?"

Before Elizabeth could answer, Martin said peevishly, "Porridge again? When are we going to have eggs and bacon and sausage and tomatoes and fried potatoes and fried bread—"

"Be quiet, you old fool," Violet snapped. "You're making my stomach rumble. You know you don't get all that until Sunday breakfast."

"Isn't this Sunday?" Martin peered at Elizabeth over the top of his glasses. "Didn't I see you leaving with that American for a social appointment last night, madam?"

"You did, Martin." Elizabeth met Violet's hard stare. "I did mention I was going to a cocktail party with Major Monroe, didn't I?"

"No, you didn't. You said you had an engagement, but you didn't say where."

"Oh." Elizabeth tried to sound innocent. "I thought I'd told you where I was going."

"It must have been Saturday night if you were socializing," Martin muttered.

"People socialize on a weeknight sometimes, Martin." Elizabeth avoided Violet's gaze.

"Not in my day they didn't." Martin dug his spoon into his porridge and began pushing it around in circles. "The weekdays are for working. The weekends are for socializing."

"People who have secrets usually have something to hide," Violet said meaningfully, ignoring Martin's comments.

"I have nothing to hide." Elizabeth lifted her chin. She longed to tell Violet it was none of her business where she went and with whom. She knew quite well, however, that if she did so, her housekeeper would sulk for at least a day or two, and make life unbearable until she got over it.

Since the death of her parents, Elizabeth had tolerated Violet's attempts to substitute for them, but sometimes the housekeeper overstepped the boundaries. Elizabeth had to admit she was uncommonly sensitive about her relationship with Earl Monroe, but there was a limit to what she would allow as far as her housekeeper's special privileges were concerned.

Fortunately, Violet must have read the warning in her expression. "I hope you had a good time."

"I had a very enjoyable evening, thank you. The major was very gracious, and I met some very interesting people on the base."

"Glad to hear it." Violet stomped back to the stove, then, without turning around, muttered, "You know I worry about what happens to you. There's no one else to worry about you now."

Instantly softening, Elizabeth said quickly, "I know, Violet. But I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."

Still with her back to her, Violet said, "I just don't want you to make another big mistake."

"Neither do I. So trust me. All right?" Deliberately, Elizabeth changed the subject. "Did you find anything else missing from the larder this morning?"

"I haven't looked yet." Violet spun around and glared at Martin. "Why, has he been thieving in there again?"

Martin looked up in protest, but before he could speak, Elizabeth cut in. "No, it's not Martin. I doubt if he could climb out of the larder window."

Violet's thin, straggly eyebrows nearly disappeared into her frizzy hairline. "Window?"

"I heard something in the larder when I came home last night. You didn't leave the window open in there, did you?"

"Of course not." Violet sent a nervous glance toward the larder. "I never leave it open. Too many wasps and flies around this time of year."

"That's what I thought. Whoever was raiding our larder last night escaped through the window."

Looking alarmed now, Violet lowered her voice. "It hasn't got anything to do with that poor man they found buried in the gardens, has it?"

"I shouldn't think so. I can't imagine what connection there could possibly be between a murderer and a common thief."

"Well, it's just that robbery at Betty Stewart's house, too. Bit of a coincidence, if you ask me. Has anyone else been robbed?"

"I really don't know." Elizabeth glanced at Martin, who was scraping the bottom of his bowl as if he intended to put a hole in it. "Perhaps I should ask George about that. I have to go into the village today, in any case. I want to take another look at the cottage Fred Bickham rented. If I'm going to rent it again, I need to see what needs doing to it."

"Good-for-nothing sod, that Fred is. Taking off like that without paying his rent money."

Violet went on muttering, but Elizabeth wasn't listening. She was thinking about the fact that Fred and Reggie had left the pub together, and neither of them had been seen again, until Reggie's body was discovered buried in her Victory Gardens.

She was also thinking about the personal possessions Fred had left behind. She had to wonder if Fred
had
gone to Ireland, as he'd said in his note, or if the reason he hadn't paid his rent was because he couldn't. Perhaps Reggie wasn't the only person to die that night. In which case, while she was at the cottage that morning, it wouldn't hurt to look around a bit more thoroughly.

Not that she expected to find Fred's body, of course. She surely would have seen him had he been there the last time she paid a visit. There was, however, a slim chance she would find a clue to what had happened to him. It was becoming increasingly clear that something significant must have happened. One man was dead, another was missing. Unless Fred was found alive, at this point it seemed doubtful that anyone would ever know what evil had befallen those two men after the Tudor Arms closed its doors on that fateful night.

CHAPTER

12

Polly's heart thumped with anxiety as she tapped on the door of Sam's room. A muffled sound answered her, and she took it to be an invitation. Sending up a silent prayer, she pushed open the door and went in.

She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but he didn't look much different from the last time she'd seen him. Except that a little more of his face was visible today. The nurse had warned her that he wasn't in a very good mood. She could tell that by the one eye she could see.

"Hi, Sam." Her lips quivered, and she had to take a deep breath before she could go on. "You're looking better today."

His mouth looked bruised on one side, and he spoke as if it hurt him to move his lips. "What are you doing here?"

It wasn't the welcome she was hoping for, and she clenched her fingers to keep the tears from spurting. She'd promised herself she wouldn't make a fool of herself in
front of him. She just hadn't realized how hard it was going to be. "I came to see you, didn't I?"

"How did you get here?"

"I came on the bus."

"I thought you were supposed to be in bed."

"I was. I came to tell you I was sorry."

"For what?"

"For lying about my age. For making you angry." She swallowed, praying she wouldn't cry. "It was my fault you crashed the jeep. If you hadn't been so cross with me. . . ."

"Cut it out," Sam said gruffly. "I was the one driving. It wasn't your fault. Are you okay? They said you had a concussion."

"Just a slight one. I'm all right now. But it was my fault, really. You were angry with me."

"I was angry at myself, for being such a sucker. I should have known better than to get messed up with a kid."

The pain cut so deep she almost cried out. "I'm not a kid, Sam. I'm not any different than I was before I told you. You didn't think I was a kid then."

"I didn't know how old you were then."

She shook her head in bewilderment. "Why does that make any difference? It doesn't change the person I am."

Sam turned his head so she couldn't see his eye. "It changes everything."

In spite of her best efforts, tears began running down her cheeks. She swiped at them with the back of her hand. "I love you, Sam. I love you. I thought you loved me."

"What does a kid like you know about love anyway?"

"
I'm not a kid!"
She was sobbing now, helpless against the tide of misery that engulfed her. "Sam, why are you doing this? Why are you being so horrible to me?"

He turned his head so fiercely that he groaned. She put out a hand to touch him, but the look in his eye stopped her. "Look, it's over. Don't you understand? Go home,
Polly. Find yourself another boyfriend and forget you ever knew me."

"I c-a-a-n't. I'll never forget you. I—" She slapped a hand over her mouth as the door opened behind her.

A sharp voice demanded, "What's all this?"

Polly's heart sank as she recognized the commanding tone. "Good morning, Sister," she said weakly.

The nurse glared at her. "What are you doing upsetting my patient? He's supposed to be resting quietly. And you were supposed to be resting at home. What are you doing here?"

"I just came to visit him. . . ." Her voice trailed off as the nurse took a firm hold of her arm.

"Well, child, the visit is over. I want you to go straight home and get into bed. The doctor was quite specific about you staying in bed for at least two more days. He won't be very happy when I tell him you were here." She tugged Polly over to the door, ignoring her attempts to speak to Sam. "Come along, child. Leave this man in peace."

Reaching the door, Polly twisted her head. "Sam, please . . ."

His face was turned away from her. "Go home, Polly. Just go home."

There was nothing she could do but allow the sister to pull her out into the corridor. The tears filled her eyes and blurred her vision, and the cold, dark hole in her heart was growing bigger by the minute.

The sister must have felt sorry for her. She patted her shoulder and said briskly, "A nice cup of tea, that's what you need. Come with me, and I'll get one for you. Then you must go home and go to bed. Promise me?"

Polly nodded, the effort almost too much for her. What did it matter what she did anymore? She'd lost Sam. The only man she could ever, ever love. There'd be no house in Hollywood, no swimming pool, no fancy clothes. But far worse than any of that, there'd be no more Sam. It
was too much to bear. Somehow it was worse than if he'd died.

She stumbled along by the sister's side, unable to hold up her head to see where they were going. She vaguely remembered someone putting a mug of tea in her hand. She must have drunk it, though she didn't remember tasting it. Nor did she remember leaving the hospital. All she knew was that she was sitting on the bus going back to Sitting Marsh, and that she would never, ever smile again.