Manor House 04 - Dig Deep for Murder (19 page)

There were many other things that could have kept him from joining her that afternoon, she reminded herself. All of them quite uneventful. Even so, the ache behind her rib cage was a distraction, and she had to force her attention on Priscilla Pierce, the earnest, energetic woman seated at the piano.

Priscilla was accompanied by Wilf White, whose wailing harmonica had pained many an ear at the local dances. The third member of the group, a belligerent trumpet player long ago dubbed Awful Ernie by his unappreciative audiences, blasted out his notes and completely overshadowed what Elizabeth assumed was supposed to be a solo piece performed by Priscilla.

Obviously annoyed at this intrusion on her masterpiece, Priscilla was sending dire looks at Ernie, who apparently was completely oblivious to anything except his efforts to belch as much air into the instrument as possible, with complete disregard for tone.

In frustration, Priscilla began pounding the keys while one foot pumped furiously up and down on the sustain pedal of the piano until Elizabeth was quite sure it would fall off. Not to be outdone, Wilf sawed at his mouth with
his harmonica, bent almost double with the effort to empty his lungs.

All in all, not a particularly inspiring performance, Elizabeth decided, among a smattering of lukewarm applause. She studied the score sheet, and after much consideration, wrote down a 3, which, considering she had only 10 points to play with, seemed quite generous.

The second volunteer to brave the unforgiving audience turned out to be George Dalrymple, who looked disturbingly unfamiliar without his constable's uniform. After consulting with Priscilla at the piano, he stepped to the center of the stage and laced his hands across his chest.

Priscilla began pounding, and after a second or two, George pursed his lips and blew. Braced for the earsplitting sound she'd endured in the police station, Elizabeth closed her eyes. Priscilla went on bashing out the notes on the suffering piano, but no sound could be heard from George.

Opening one eye, Elizabeth saw George wipe the back of his hand across his mouth. "Nervous, your ladyship," he called out, as she looked up at him. "Makes me mouth dry."

Elizabeth nodded. "Take your time, George."

By now catcalls from the audience drifted toward the stage. George pursed again, blew again, and managed nothing better than a pitiful little peep. Priscilla stopped playing and sat glaring at poor George, who was becoming quite red in the face. Finally, someone took pity on him and rushed forward with a glass of lemonade.

Instead of wetting George's whistle, so to speak, the tart drink had the opposite effect. George finally had to give up, and left the stage amid much booing and jeering. Wally hurried out to announce the next contestant.

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows when she saw Rita Crumm walk out. Normally Rita occupied the judge's chair, and now Elizabeth realized why she had been handed this exalted position. For the first time since she
could remember, Rita Crumm was actually taking part as a contestant.

Filled with expectation, Elizabeth sat back to enjoy the spectacle. Rita was dressed in a uniform that had obviously been homemade, since it bore no resemblance to anything Elizabeth had seen before. Huge gold tassels, apparently confiscated from Rita's front room curtains, swung from her shoulders and dangled across her flat chest. She wore a bus conductor's cap, which had been lavishly trimmed with gold braid.

Priscilla, perched high on her seat, held her hands in a dramatic pose above the piano keys. The audience fell quiet, no doubt as intrigued as Elizabeth to know exactly what talent Rita had so far successfully hidden from the villagers.

Priscilla's hands descended in a deafening crash of discord, making Elizabeth wince. Rita opened her mouth, and in a voice that resembled a stray cat in heat, began belting out the words to a popular song.

Luckily the words were familiar, since the tune was totally unrecognizable. Just when Elizabeth thought she could stand it no more, Rita came to the end of the song. About to politely applaud, Elizabeth's hands froze as the entire Housewives Brigade, consisting of several nervous, fidgety women, marched haphazardly onto the stage and stood in a bedraggled row, valiantly attempting to keep up with their stalwart and very loud leader.

The audience must have been in shock, since not a sound emerged from their open mouths. Struggling to keep a straight face, Elizabeth focused her gaze on Rita as the group of red-faced women battled their way through the final verse.

At last it was over. The song came to an end, Priscilla lifted her hands from the keys, and everyone took a bow—to dead silence. Feeling somewhat responsible for the unfortunate women, Elizabeth clapped vigorously, thus prompting the audience to follow suit, albeit with great reluctance.

Elizabeth stared at the score sheet, agonizing over a suitable score. She failed to see the man take the seat next to her until he said, far too close to her ear, "That had to be the worst rendition of 'We'll Meet Again' I've ever heard."

"That's because it was supposed to be 'The White Cliffs of Dover.' " She smiled at Earl, her relief making her light-headed. "Thank heavens you're here. I'm having the devil of a job deciding on these scores."

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Is that the only reason you're happy to see me?"

"Of course not." Flustered, she dropped her pencil to the ground. Bending over to pick it up, she bumped heads with Earl, tipping her hat to the back of her head. "Sorry." She hastily straightened her hat, then took the pencil he'd retrieved for her. "Thank you."

Fortunately they were interrupted by the next contestant, a charming little girl who sang a song made famous by Shirley Temple. Enchanted, Elizabeth had no hesitation in declaring her the winner.

Handing her the prize—a crisp one-pound note—amid boisterous cheers from the crowd, Elizabeth breathed a huge sigh of relief. Her duties were over for the afternoon, and for a little while, she could enjoy the scintillating presence of Major Earl Monroe.

CHAPTER

14

"Now that I have time to breathe," Elizabeth said, as she strolled around the stalls at Earl's side, "I want to thank you for my St. Christopher medal. That was a very thoughtful gift, and one I shall treasure always."

Earl smiled. "I'm told that St. Christopher is the patron saint of travelers, I thought you could use all the help you can get when you're tearing around on that bike of yours."

She glanced up at him. "Are you suggesting I'm a reckless driver?"

"Not at all. It's the other idiots on the road I worry about." His face sobered. "I gave you the medal to remind you to be careful. Sam's accident makes it seem all the more important now."

"I'll be careful," she promised him. Inside she was glowing to think he worried about her. He had a way of changing the most mundane day into an unforgettable one.

The afternoon turned out to be far more pleasurable
than Elizabeth had anticipated. The sun warmed her back while a light breeze from the ocean cooled her face, and the time passed all too quickly.

Earl proved to be quite proficient at several of the games. Although he had no luck ringing the necks of milk bottles with little hoops, he won a prize at the dartboards, and yet another by rolling coins down a tiny ramp and settling them in the middle of a square.

"I can never do that," Elizabeth said, as she accepted the tiny china elephant he offered her. "My coins always touch the edges of the squares."

"It's all in the wrist." He wriggled his hand at her, making her laugh.

Just then, a worried-looking young man waved a camera at them. "
North Horsham News
, your ladyship. May I take your picture?"

"Of course." Elizabeth smiled up at Earl. "Please excuse me for a moment."

Earl nodded, and stepped away, but the young man waved him back. "No, both of you together, if I may?"

Earl shrugged, and stepped back to her side.

Feeling somewhat self-conscious, Elizabeth smiled at the camera, intensely aware of him standing close beside her.

The reporter thanked them both, then chased off after another prospect. "Well," she said lightly, "that will be a good one for you to send home."

"I'll get a copy?"

"Of course! I always order a copy for the family scrapbook. I'll order one for you, too."

"The family scrapbook?"

"Yes." She led him to a wooden bench set against the wall of the vicarage and sat down. "I need to rest my feet. These heels were not meant for walking on grass."

He sat down beside her, pulled off his cap, and began twisting it around in his hands. "Tell me about the scrapbook."

"Oh, it's nothing spectacular. Just photographs of the family taken over the years."

"I'd like to see it."

Pleased, she said quickly, "I'll show it to you when you have some time to spare."

"I'd like that."

"They are rather fun to look at. It's good to keep a record, don't you think?"

"Absolutely. Especially of a family as illustrious as yours."

She wrinkled her nose. "I must admit, it's a lot simpler now that we have cameras to take the pictures. In the old days one had to have portraits painted." She looked up at him. "Have you noticed that in the portraits of my ancestors in the great hall, not one of them is smiling? They all have these terrible dour expressions on their faces. I made up my mind that when I have my portrait painted, I'm going to smile."

"You're gonna have your portrait painted?"

He sounded amused, and she felt a little defensive. "Well, it is tradition, after all. Though I suppose it all seems rather ostentatious to you."

"Not at all. I think it's great that you want to hang on the wall with the rest of your ancestors. Something to treasure for the rest of your life. As much as I'll treasure the picture we had taken today."

Instantly appeased, she smiled. "As will I. Some of my photographs are more important to me than a treasure chest of jewels. I can look at them and be instantly transported to the moment they were taken. Especially the ones I had taken with my parents. Now that they're gone, the photographs are all I have left to remind me of them."

"I know what you mean. Just about every guy I know carries a picture of someone he loves everywhere he goes. Amazing how important a scrap of paper can be to someone."

She wondered if he carried a photograph of his wife and daughters with him everywhere he went. If so, she
really didn't want to see it. Knowing what his family looked like would only make them more real, and the guilt that already kept her awake at night would become even more insistent.

She thought about his last words. She already knew how important the picture taken that afternoon would become to her. Something to keep and treasure in the dark future when the war was over and he was back in his country, where he belonged. Thinking about it made her depressed.

All this talk of photographs reminded her of the blank space on Betty Stewart's wall. Not that Betty had seemed that upset by its loss. Then again, the picture had meant far more to her husband. Reggie Stewart had been so proud of it, according to Joan Plumstone. It was sad to think it had been stolen. Reggie would be devastated if he knew.

Elizabeth frowned. An idea was forming in her head. An idea so bizarre she couldn't believe she was considering it. Yet if she was right, everything she'd discovered up to now would make perfect sense.

When Earl spoke again, she jumped. "Penny for them?"

"Oh, it's nothing. Just something I need to look into."
Something
, she silently added,
that might just tell me what had happened to Fred Bickham the night he left the Tudor Arms in the company of Reggie Stewart
.

Much to her delight, Earl suggested she show him the scrapbook that evening, over a glass of the excellent brandy he brought with him. Sharing her precious memories with him was both exquisite and painful, and by the time he left, she was warding off depression once more.

She tried to overcome it by concentrating on her revelation earlier, and what it might mean in connection with all the other facts she had. Finally she scribbled everything in a notebook, and studied every angle until she was fairly certain her theories were correct.

The next step was to decide what to do about it. Reg
gie's funeral was to be held the day after tomorrow. She would have to talk to George in the morning, after church.

Having made that decision, she managed to rest easier and slept relatively well that night.

Immediately after the service at St. Matthew's ended, Elizabeth mounted her motorcycle and rode down to George's house. He and Millie hadn't attended church that morning, and she was concerned that one of them might be ill. When she received no answer at the house, she drove by the police station. As she'd expected, the building was locked up tight.

Her next stop was at George's partner's house. Sid Goffin wasn't at home either, but Ethel, his wife, informed Elizabeth that both men were in North Horsham for a bowls tournament. They weren't expected back until late that night.

There was nothing for it, Elizabeth decided. She would have to wait until the morning. She was reluctant to make too big a fuss, in case her theories turned out to be wrong. Most of them were based on conjecture, and she had no concrete proof of anything. Just a solid line of thinking that made perfect sense to her, though whether or not George would share her opinion was in some doubt.

Restless for the rest of the day, and plagued by doubts that night, she was thankful for what little sleep she could manage. She awoke Monday morning in a turmoil of indecision.

Her suspicions would cause a terrible disruption of a sacred and deeply emotional event. If she were mistaken, the consequences would be more than embarrassing. They would be downright humiliating. No one would ever forget what she'd done. She would lose all the respect and admiration she'd worked so hard to earn since her parents' death. It would be a tremendous gamble, yet how else could she prove what she knew deep down had to be true?