Manor House 04 - Dig Deep for Murder (17 page)

"Lady Elizabeth!" Martin exclaimed, as Elizabeth was about to open the front door. "Whatever are you doing?"

"I'm going out, Martin." Elizabeth smiled at him. "I shan't be long."

"Well, you must allow me to open the door for you. Shall I call for the carriage to be brought around?"

"Um, no, thank you, Martin." Elizabeth drew on her gloves. "I'm taking the motorcycle."

Martin gave a sniff of disapproval as he tugged on the heavy iron latch. "Well, I suppose it's better than that blasted noisy machine those Americans drive around. Though if you want my opinion, a carriage is far more fitting for a lady of the manor."

"That may well be. Now that we have no horses, however, a carriage might be just a tiny bit impractical, don't you think?"

"No horses?" Martin blinked at her above his spectacles. "Where the devil did they go?"

"We sold them, Martin."

"Sold them?"

"Every one of them, I'm afraid."

"What a blow. No more horses. Your sisters will be very disappointed."

Elizabeth paused in the act of stepping outside. "My sisters? I don't have any sisters, Martin. I am an only child, remember?"

"Yes, madam. But you have sisters now. Three of them. I've seen them."

Elizabeth stared at him. "Where did you see them?"

"In the great hall. They were talking to your father. I couldn't hear what he was saying to them, of course, but I saw them quite clearly. One of them had beautiful long, wavy hair, just like you did when you were that age."

"That couldn't possibly have been my father, Martin. You know very well he's been dead for three years."

"So you keep telling me, madam." Martin shook his head back and forth. "So you keep telling me. You don't have to worry, I shan't tell anyone I've seen him. I'm sure there's a very good reason why we have to pretend he's dead. Just don't tell those blasted Americans. They'll blab it all over town."

Elizabeth sighed. "Don't worry, Martin. I'll keep quiet if you promise to do the same."

Martin tapped the side of his nose with his finger. "Mum's the word, madam."

She hurried outside into a damp, misty morning, which might well have accounted for the shivers chasing up and down her spine. They couldn't possibly be due to the uneasy feeling Martin had given her. After all,
she
knew there were no such things as ghosts. Martin was simply hallucinating again.

Even so, she couldn't rid her mind of Polly's words a couple of days earlier.
I seen them, Lady Elizabeth. Three of them. Children, they were. They flitted across the great hall by the east wing
.

She saw herself standing in the dim light of the kitchen furnace, watching a shadow slip from the room. The shivers turned to a full-blown shudder.

As she hurried across the courtyard to the stables, she did her best to shake the eerie feeling. It was nonsense, of course. The shadow in the kitchen had opened the door. A ghost would have gone through it. And ghosts did not open larder windows to climb out.

No, whoever she had seen and heard in the kitchen was as human as she was. More than likely an American officer on the prowl to satisfy his late-night hunger. She
would have a word with Earl about it. Perhaps he could shed some light on the mystery.

Then again, surely one of her American officers wouldn't rob the houses in the village. That made no sense at all. It had to be coincidence.

Approaching her motorcycle, she pulled the small package Earl had given her from her pocket. She'd opened it the minute she'd reached her room the night before, and had slept with the tiny St. Christopher medal he'd given her beneath her pillow. The note with it asked her to carry the medal with her for safety on her motorcycle, and she smiled as she hung it in the sidecar. From now on, she would go nowhere without it.

On the way to the village she tried to relive the memories of the evening before, but her mind would not stop wrestling with the questions that would not let her rest. By the time she reached Fred Bickham's cottage, her head ached with the effort to sort things out.

She let herself into the musty living room, wrinkling her nose at the unpleasant smell. Her first task was to open every window in the place and get some fresh air in there. Then she pulled a notebook and pencil from her handbag and prepared to make some notes. Fred's personal belongings would have to be crated up and stored until he sent for them or she received notice of how to dispose of them. The curtains in the living room would have to be washed, as would, no doubt, the curtains in the bedrooms.

Dirty dishes still lay in the kitchen sink, and Elizabeth hastily left the room to escape the offensive odor. The stairs creaked and snapped as she climbed them, and her glove was black with dust from the banister when she reached the upstairs landing.

The door to the bedroom stood ajar, and she hesitated before poking her head in to look around. She was immensely relieved to find the room empty, even though she'd already convinced herself that she would not find Fred's dead body lying there.

She was right about the curtains; they would have to
be taken down and washed. She eyed the yellow candlewick bedspread drawn untidily over the pillows. It still looked fairly presentable, but since she rented the cottage furnished, she would have to provide clean bedding for the new tenant.

Busily jotting notes to herself, she moved to the spare bedroom and peered inside. She would have to remove the packing cases, and if the new tenants had children, she would have to provide beds for this room.

Unbidden, a vision of three ghostly children floating across the great hall came to mind. She shook it off, and concentrated on her inspection. The next thing to do was open drawers to see if Fred had left any personal belongings.

She returned to the bedroom and began opening the drawers in the dresser. As she opened each one, the cold feeling that had unsettled her ever since she had entered the cottage deepened. It was as if Fred had never left. The drawers were full of clean underwear, in untidy piles. Socks, ties, handkerchiefs . . . everything that he would take with him if he were leaving the premises for good.

Closing the last drawer with a snap, Elizabeth faced the truth. It looked very much as if Fred Bickham did not leave the cottage for a trip to anywhere, except perhaps his grave.

Sighing, Elizabeth resigned herself to informing George of her discovery. The sooner they began the search for the missing man, the better. Although by now, as the inspector had said, the trail was probably cold.

A nasty thought occurred to Elizabeth on the way to the police station. Reggie Stewart had been found buried in John Rickett's Victory Garden. No more than two weeks after John had died. He was supposed to have died from a kidney disease. But what if something else had killed him? Or someone? Could John Rickett be another link in this strange chain of events?

Elizabeth groaned out loud as she battered her way against the wind that had roared in from the sea. The
further she dug into this case, the more complicated it became. What she needed was a quiet evening in her conservatory, to sort things out in her mind. Perhaps if she jotted down everything she knew, some sense might come of it. It was certainly worth a try.

George appeared uninterested in her theory about Fred Bickham's possible death. Although he promised to pass on her opinions to the inspector, she left the police station with a strong suspicion that the search for Fred would be put on hold, along with the investigation into Reggie Stewart's death.

Plagued by the conviction that, thanks to the casualties of the war, most people had become complacent about death, she was not feeling too chipper by the time she arrived back at the manor. Even the news that Sadie Buttons would be arriving the next day failed to cheer her up.

Although she was surprised to admit it, she missed Polly's cheerful chatter, not to mention her assistance, now that the correspondence and bills were piling up on her desk.

Having polished off a rather boring meal of meat pie and mashed potatoes, she decided to pay Polly a visit before tackling the tiresome paperwork.

Polly herself opened the door, and Elizabeth was taken aback by her ravaged face. She seemed heartened, though somewhat surprised, to see her visitor, however, and led Elizabeth into the cramped living room.

"I'll put the kettle on, m'm," she announced, as Elizabeth made herself comfortable on the couch.

"Oh, no, Polly, thank you. I don't care for tea right now. Just sit down and tell me how you're feeling."

Polly picked up a pile of magazines from an armchair and dropped them on the floor. "I'm doing all right, thank you, m'm." She sank onto the chair and folded her legs beneath her. "It was awfully nice of you to come."

Elizabeth studied the wan face. Polly didn't look all right. In fact, she looked as if the troubles of the world
had descended on her thin shoulders. "Well, I just wanted to tell you not to worry about coming back to work too soon."

Polly looked alarmed. "Have you got someone else doing my work? Not that Sadie Buttons, I hope. She didn't sound too clever to me." Her face changed. "Not that it's any of my business, m'm. I suppose the bills have to be paid."

Elizabeth smiled. "Please don't concern yourself, Polly. No one is doing your work, and I can take care of anything important that comes along until you're well enough to return."

"To tell you the truth, m'm, I'm going bonkers sitting around the house." To Elizabeth's dismay, Polly's face crumpled. "I need to come back to work so I don't sit around thinking about things." A big tear squeezed out and splashed down her cheek.

Elizabeth leaned forward, one hand outstretched toward the girl. "Oh, Polly, dear, what's wrong? Are you in pain? Perhaps I should ring Dr. Sheridan and ask him to take a look at you."

Polly shook her head. "No, m'm, it's not that. It's
Sam!"
The last word came out on a wail.

Elizabeth sank back on the couch. "Oh, I see." Her heart ached for the two of them. Perhaps it was too much to ask that a young girl Polly's age would be able to accept a disfigured man, no matter how fond of him she was.

"I went to the hospital to see him this morning." Polly sandwiched the words between heart-wrenching sobs.

"That wasn't too wise, my dear. The doctor was quite adamant about you resting quietly for a few days."

"I know. But I had to see him, didn't I? I just didn't expect. . . ." A burst of weeping cut off the rest of her words.

Wishing she could do something to ease the girl's pain, Elizabeth sought for words of comfort. "I suppose it must
have been quite a shock. Someone should have prepared you."

Polly's sobbing ceased immediately. "You
knew
?"

"Major Monroe told me last night. I'm so sorry, my dear."

"The major knew? What did Sam do, tell everyone in the village?" Polly started sobbing again. "They'll all be laughing behind me back. Thinking what a blinking fool I've been."

Elizabeth frowned. "I don't think anyone will be laughing at you, Polly. I'm quite sure, under the circumstances, they'd feel just as badly as you do. After all, it's not a laughing matter. That young man's entire life will be affected."

"
His
life? What about mine?"

Feeling just a little bit irritated, and rather disappointed in the child, Elizabeth's voice came out a little sharper than she intended. "I'm sure you'll survive, Polly. After all, you weren't permanently disfigured. Think what it will mean to Sam Cutter to have to go through life with people staring at his face—or worse, asking him what happened to him. Some people can be so terribly ignorant about such things."

Polly's damp, red-rimmed eyes were wide in her face. "Disfigured? Sam is disfigured?"

Elizabeth felt as bewildered as Polly appeared to be. "Yes—I thought that was what we were talking about."

"Oh, flipping crikey!" Polly wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. "He never told me. No one told me. I didn't know."

"Then what . . . ?"

"Lady Elizabeth." Polly climbed slowly off the chair. "Can I ask you for a really big favor?"

"Well, I—"

"Oh, please, m'm. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't a matter of life and death. Honest. I have to see Sam. Right away. Could you take me there on your motorbike? It takes so
long on the bus, and there isn't one going to North Horsham for hours."

"Polly, I really don't think—"

"Please, m'm? I'd be ever so grateful. If I could just see him today, I'll come back to work tomorrow. I promise."

Elizabeth rose to her feet. "Polly, I don't know what this is all about, but I really can't accept the responsibility of taking you back to North Horsham today. You need your rest."

Polly started to protest, but Elizabeth raised her hand. "If you're feeling better tomorrow, I'll take you there first thing in the morning—"

"Oh, thank you, m'm—"

"—providing your mother agrees that you can go."

Polly's expression turned desperate. "She'll agree, I know she will. She's just
got
to let me go."

"
And
on condition that you promise me you will stay in your bed for the rest of today." Elizabeth gestured at the magazines lying on the floor. "Take those to bed with you. They'll keep you company."

"Yes, m'm, I will. Thank you ever so much."

Heartened by the hope shining in the young girl's face, Elizabeth smiled. "Just make sure your mother gives her permission. And don't worry about coming back to work until next week. I'll be busy all weekend anyway. What with Sadie Buttons arriving and the summer fete on Saturday, I'll need bed rest myself by Sunday." She turned to go, then remembered something. "I shall be attending a funeral on Monday morning, so perhaps it might be better if you plan on working just the afternoon that day."

"Yes, m'm, I'll do that. Thank you."

Still not quite sure why she was being thanked so effusively, Elizabeth took her leave.

She was still puzzling over Polly's transformation when she sat down at her desk an hour or so later. She had put off tackling the paperwork until the last possible minute, but several overdue bills needed her attention. She pulled
the pile of papers from the tray and began sorting through them.