Manor House 04 - Dig Deep for Murder (2 page)

"And dodging the bombs while they do it," Violet muttered. "Blooming idiots, the lot of them, if you ask me."

"Most of them find that exciting."

"They wouldn't if they'd lost two parents blown to bits by a bomb, like you did."

"People don't think about things like that these days. War does strange things to people. They accept the fact that each day could be their last. They take risks and live each moment to the fullest, doing things they'd never do in peacetime."

Violet sniffed. "Wars don't last forever. One day the men will come back, and they'll want their jobs. It'll be hard on all those women to get on with their lives after that."

"It will, indeed." Elizabeth didn't like to dwell on such things. She hated the thought that the old life had gone forever, and nothing would ever be the same again.

"So what are you going to do about getting a new housemaid, then? I could really use the help. My old bones aren't what they used to be, and Martin's no blinking help."

"I've told Polly to call the London Labour Exchange. The assistant there told me there were plenty of young girls who would jump at the chance to get out of the city."

"Especially with the American air base on the door
step," Violet said dryly. She picked up the kettle and filled it with water.

"Well, she did mention that, too," Elizabeth admitted. Deciding to change the subject, she reached for the newspaper again. "I can't believe that John Rickett has died. He wasn't that old. It says in his obituary that he was fifty-four. Why, that's younger than you."

"Don't remind me." Violet carried the kettle to the stove. "Have you found anyone to take over his plot in the Victory Garden?"

"Polly said her mother would like it."

"Well, I hope she's a bit more industrious than her daughter. The girl would do murder to get out of working, I swear she would."

"I'm sure Edna will take very good care of the plot." Elizabeth turned the page back to the national news. "I see Mr. Churchill will be giving one of his speeches tonight. We must remember to listen. So inspiring, that man. I really don't think the Londoners could possibly have held up this long without him."

Violet, who had disappeared for a moment, emerged from the pantry. "That's funny." She scratched her head with a bony finger. "I could have sworn I left the cheese in there."

Elizabeth watched her hurry over to the cupboards and open one.

"It's not here, neither." Violet spun around and dug her fists into her hips. "I bet that Martin's been in there. He loves cheese. I'll have his kidneys for stew if he took it."

"I'm sure Martin wouldn't do such a thing," Elizabeth said, feeling uncomfortable. One never knew these days exactly what Martin was capable of doing. "Where is he, anyway? I haven't seem him since breakfast."

"I don't know," Violet said grimly. "But you can be sure I'll find him."

Elizabeth rose from the chair. "Well, don't be too hard on him. He isn't himself these days."

"Gawd knows who he is, then," Violet muttered.

Elizabeth paused at the door. "I'm going to run down to the village. We have a tenant who's behind on his rent."

"Just watch yourself on that motorcycle. Them Yanks still haven't learned how to drive on the proper side of the road."

Elizabeth smiled. Sometimes her housekeeper sounded more like a mother. "I'll be careful."

"Your mother would turn in her grave if she knew you were tearing around the village on that machine."

"Very likely," Elizabeth agreed. "But we can't afford a car, and it's faster than walking." She closed the door before Violet could argue the point.

"Ew, Ma, why do I have to help you with the gardening tonight?" Polly wailed. "I was going to wash me hair."

Edna Barnett stood in the middle of her tiny kitchen and folded her arms. "Because I said so, that's why. Tell Marlene she has to help as well. With three of us out there, we can have it all done by the time it's dark. Thank goodness for double summertime, that's what I say. Now that we've put the clocks back two hours for the summer, it won't be dark until after ten o'clock."

"But I'm tired." Polly slumped on a kitchen chair. "Marlene is, too. She's been on her feet all day working in the hairdresser's."

"She spends half her time in that shop sitting reading film magazines," Edna said sharply. "Go and tell her she has to help. Once we get the plot all weeded out, I can take care of it meself. John already did most of the planting. It would break his heart to see that garden looking the way it does."

Polly looked at her hands. "I'll get dirt in me fingernails, and then Lady Elizabeth will get cross with me. You know how she is. I have to look me best at all times. I'm a secretary, after all, not a blooming gardener."

"Do I have to remind you, my girl, that there's a war on? We all have to do our part. It's a small sacrifice compared to all those poor buggers being bombed out in Lon
don. Lady Elizabeth was good enough to give up some of her land for the gardens, and the least we can do is take care of a few vegetables. Now get up them stairs and tell that lazy sister of yours to get down here before I box both your ears."

Polly got wearily to her feet. Once Ma got her dander up, it didn't do to cross her. "All right, I'm going." She stomped up the stairs, muttering under her breath so Ma wouldn't hear her.

She found Marlene lying on her bed, reading a tattered copy of
Picture Show
. "I feel so sorry for poor Clark Gable," she said when Polly sank down beside her. "They say they had to stop filming his latest picture because he was in shock over losing his wife."

"Who was his wife, then?" Polly asked, only mildly interested. Since she'd met Sam Cutter, an American squadron leader billeted at the manor, she couldn't get excited about film stars. Sam filled her thoughts and her dreams, and her only aim in life was to marry him and go to America with him.

"Carole Lombard, that's who." Marlene rolled over on her side. "You know, the one what died in that plane crash last year? They say he hasn't been the same since—"

Edna's strident voice echoed up the narrow staircase and bounced off the walls. "Are you girls coming, or do I have to come up there and get you?"

"Ooh, crikey, I forgot." Polly jumped off the bed. "Ma wants us to help her weed the plot in the Victory Garden."

Marlene groaned. "Always something." She rolled off her side onto her feet. "Still, look at the bright side. You might get a chance to see Sam while you're there." She tossed her thick red hair back from her shoulders. "I wouldn't mind seeing some of the boys meself."

"I don't get to see much of them, and I'm there all the time." Polly trudged down the stairs ahead of her sister. "They're flying missions every day now. It gets real scary, it does, wondering if Sam's all right. Sometimes it's days
before I see him." She speeded up as Edna appeared at the foot of the stairs. "We're coming."

A few minutes later the three of them wheeled along the coast road on their bicycles. Marlene was determined to make a race of it, and Polly had a hard time keeping up with her. The wind whipped off the sea, tugging at the pins that held her long, dark hair in a twist. One of these days, she promised herself, she'd have Marlene cut it short. Then she wouldn't have to worry about no more pins.

Racing after Marlene up the long driveway to the Manor House, she didn't realize they'd left Ma far behind them until she'd climbed off her bicycle and thrown it down on the grass.

Lady Elizabeth had donated a portion of her once pristine lawn to the village for their Victory Gardens, and now, at the height of summer, green shoots and thick leaves sprouted from every inch of the plots. A few women from the village were already hard at work, either kneeling in the dirt or bending over their tasks.

Polly had no trouble spotting the plot that had belonged to John Rickett. Instead of the orderly pattern of neat rows, tall white and yellow weeds nodded their heads in a tangle of stalks and spindly vines. "Ooh, 'eck," she said, gazing gloomily at the mess. "That's going to take some bloody doing."

"Better not let Ma hear you swear like that." Marlene pulled on a pair of gardening gloves and unstrapped a hoe from her bicycle. "Come on, let's get to it. You start digging up that end and I'll start at the other. We'll have it half done by the time Ma gets here."

Polly dragged a spade from its harness. "Not blooming likely. She's halfway up the drive already." She stepped onto the edge of the dirt and aimed her spade. "Here, wait a minute!" She poked a freshly turned mound of soil with her foot. "It looks like someone started digging in here already." She wrinkled her nose. "It don't half smell 'orrible, too."

Marlene, busily wielding the hoe at the other end of the plot, didn't even look up. "Probably someone dug in some horse dung."

"Well, I wish they'd waited until we'd finished weeding." Polly stuck the edge of the spade next to the mound and stepped on it. "It would have been—" She broke off as her spade struck something solid. "Blimey, what's this, then?" Grunting, she shifted the blade of the spade to get under whatever was blocking it.

Bent over the handle, her nose just a foot or two from the ground, she felt something give. She shoved her foot down hard on the blade, and the object shifted, breaking through the crumbling soil to the surface.

For a long moment Polly stared at the thing lying right at her feet. Something cold slammed into her stomach as she realized what it was.

The human hand lay lifeless in the dirt, the fingers drawn into a claw. Just below where the rest of the arm disappeared beneath the ground, a gold watch clung to a grimy wrist, winking at her in the glow of the evening sun.

Polly let out one shrill, penetrating scream, then twisted away and was violently sick.

CHAPTER

2

If there was one thing Elizabeth disliked about riding a motorcycle, it was the way the wind tended to dislodge her hat, despite its firm anchor of pins and elastic. Her bunched-up skirts were another cause for concern, though she was careful to arrange them in such a way that she remained within the boundaries of decorum.

One had to make sacrifices in wartime, true, but as her dear, departed mother had impressed upon her at every possible opportunity, to a Hartleigh, appearance was everything. Which meant a hat and a decent frock whenever she appeared in public.

The misfortunes of her ex-husband at the gambling tables had left her almost destitute, and the constant struggle to keep up at least a semblance of affluence became, at times, overwhelming. It was, however, crucial to maintain the standards expected of her.

The Manor House, and all it stood for, was a symbol
of continuity in a world gone mad. The mansion had stood on the hill overlooking the village of Sitting Marsh for more than three centuries, home to the Earls of Wellsborough and their families. The fact that, thanks to the untimely death of her parents, there was no longer an Earl of Wellsborough was bad enough. The villagers had been forced to accept not only a woman as their guardian and adviser, but a woman of doubtful heritage. Faced with the formidable task of proving her worth, Elizabeth fought to keep up the traditions so long revered by her tenants. It wasn't easy.

Right now, she was struggling to hold onto her hat with one hand while maintaining a reasonable control over her motorcycle as she sped downhill toward the rows of cottages. Luckily she had a sidecar to help her balance—without it she would have had a great deal more trouble.

In spite of everything, she rather enjoyed riding the motorcycle. She usually caused a stir when she roared into the High Street, and it was important to make an entrance, no matter where one happened to be. Most of all, flying down the hill in this manner gave her a wonderful sense of freedom, in a way that would not have been possible inside an automobile.

Arriving at Sandhill Lane, she parked the motorcycle against the stone wall that separated the cottages from the road. Fred Bickham's cottage was at the far end of the row, and Elizabeth picked her way along the rutted path to the door, her mind dwelling on the matter of her new housemaid and wondering if Polly had rung the Labour Exchange before leaving for the day.

Thick black curtains covered the windows of Fred's cottage. Elizabeth frowned. It wouldn't be dark for at least another two hours. Most people waited until the last minute to draw their blackout curtains, holding on to every second of daylight they could. She lifted the door knocker and let it fall.

Everything seemed unnaturally quiet. She could hear no sound from inside the cottage, and there was no sign
of the tenants in the neighboring cottages. Rather belatedly she remembered Churchill's speech scheduled for that evening. No doubt everyone was inside listening to their radios.

Once more she knocked on the door and waited. After a moment or two she gave up. Either Fred had retired early for the night, or he couldn't hear her over the radio. Then again, he could be in the Tudor Arms, enjoying a late evening pint of ale.

Deciding that her discussion with him could wait, Elizabeth returned to her motorcycle. Now all she could think about was returning home as soon as possible, in the hopes of seeing Earl Monroe before he retired for the night. It had been entirely too long since she had enjoyed a friendly chat with the major.

Filled with guilty anticipation, Elizabeth soared back up the hill toward the mansion. Turning in to the long driveway, she glanced across the rolling lawn to the far slope that led down to the woods. It was there that she had designated half an acre of land for the Victory Gardens. The area was out of sight from the mansion windows, and far enough away to avoid being disturbed by the volunteer gardeners.

From that end of the driveway, however, she had a clear view of the plots. As she coasted between the trees, she caught sight of a knot of people clustered around one end. Her curiosity caught, she slowed the machine and came to a stop. Something was definitely going on over there. She shut off the engine, intending to walk across to find out if there was a problem. As the engine died away, the sound of someone crying drifted across the lawn on the evening breeze.