Manor House 04 - Dig Deep for Murder (4 page)

"He's in the kitchen," Millie said, backing away. "I'll get him." She fled through the door and disappeared.

Moments later George's gruff voice could be heard from the kitchen. "What's she want?"

Millie's voice was a low, unintelligible murmur.

"Does she know I'm in the middle of me supper?"

Millie raised her voice in an audible shushing. Again she murmured something.

"All right, all right, I'm going. Keep your bloody hair on."

Earl raised an eyebrow and Elizabeth felt a quite insane urge to giggle.

Then George appeared in the doorway. "Lady Elizabeth, this is a nice surprise." He ambled into the room, giving Earl one of those peculiar, uneasy glances most of the villagers reserved for the Americans. "Evening."

Earl nodded.

Elizabeth decided not to waste time with niceties. "George, you have to come back to the Manor House with us. There's something you need to take a look at."

George looked pointedly at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Can it wait until the morning, your ladyship? I'm in the middle of me supper right now."

"No, it can't wait. George, there's a dead body in my Victory Garden."

George's eyes grew wide. "I beg your pardon, m'm?"

"I said, there's a dead body in my Victory Garden. Polly dug it up. It's a man. That's all I can tell you. His face . . . " All of a sudden the room seemed terribly warm.

"Look, buddy, I think you'd better go take a look," Earl said bluntly. "Bring the M.E. with you."

George stared vacantly at him. "M.E?"

"Medical examiner. Doctor. Whatever you guys use to check out a dead body."

George turned pale. "I'll give Dr. Sheridan a ring. He can take me up there in his motorcar. Perhaps you should take Lady Elizabeth home, Major."

At that moment Elizabeth was concentrating on taking very deep breaths. Finding her voice again, she said firmly, "I want to be there when Dr. Sheridan arrives."

George pulled himself up another half inch. "This is police business, your ladyship. I can't have anyone interfering."

"The body is in my Victory Garden. I have a right to know who he is and how he got there." And, she added silently, she wasn't going to rest until she discovered the answers to both those questions.

CHAPTER

3

Elizabeth stood with her back to the vegetable plots while the men examined the body. Dr. Sheridan had brought both George and Sid with him and, in spite of their protests, reinforced by Earl's suggestion that she wait in the house, Elizabeth had insisted on being present.

She had to admit she was terribly glad of Earl's comforting presence as she waited in the gathering darkness while the doctor did his gruesome work. The smell was really quite awful, even though she stood several yards upwind of the makeshift grave.

"I hope you're not getting yourself mixed up in this mess," Earl muttered. "Whoever killed that poor guy could still be lurking around somewhere. He won't take too kindly to someone poking around and asking questions about it."

"Probably not," Elizabeth agreed. "But he should have
thought about that before he buried his victim in my Victory Garden."

Thanks to the constables' discreet use of torches, she couldn't see the expression on his face, but she heard the wry amusement in his voice when he answered. "Guess he doesn't know you too well, or he'd have found somewhere else to hide the body."

She was saved from answering that when George's voice startled her.

"Well, we think we know who he is, your ladyship."

The grass had deadened his footsteps, so she hadn't heard him approach. She spun around, blinking in the beam of George's torch. His face looked greenish in the subdued glow. He wasn't wearing his helmet, and she could see beads of sweat traveling down his forehead from the round bald patch on his head.

Feeling sorry for him, she asked eagerly, "Is it one of the villagers?"

"Well, we can't say for sure, m'm. Not until he's been properly identified, so to speak, but Sid recognized the coat and the scarf the poor blighter wore around his neck. Also, there's a photograph of a dog in his pocket, among other things. Sid recognized that, too."

"So who is he, George?"

"Well, I can't really say right now, m'm—"

"Of course you can," Elizabeth said impatiently. "Don't be a bore, George. You know I'm going to find out sooner or later, so you might as well tell me now."

"Can't say until he's been identified proper like," George said, with irritating finality.

Just then Sid arrived out of the gloom and paused at George's elbow. "We'd better get down to Betty Stewart's house," he said. "She'll be wondering about her husband, poor sod. Doc says he'll take Reggie's body with him in the backseat. One of us will have to walk back to the village, unless you want to sit next to poor old Reggie?"

George had turned on Sid in a frantic attempt to shush
him. Having failed, he cuffed his partner's ear. "How many times have I told you to keep your blinking mouth shut?"

"Betty Stewart is one of my tenants," Elizabeth said, her heart going out to the poor woman. "It's my duty to come with you when you inform her that her husband has died so brutally."

"Lady Elizabeth—"

Earl murmured her name just as George said loudly, "That really won't be necessary, your ladyship."

"Excuse me, but I think it is quite necessary. You know how flustered you get when faced with a hysterical woman. Sid can go with the doctor in his car, and I'll take you down to Betty Stewart's house in my sidecar. That way nobody has to walk down to the village."

"That's very kind of you, your ladyship," George said, "but I wouldn't want to put you out—"

"Come along, George," Elizabeth said, losing patience entirely. "It's getting late, and I haven't had my supper yet. The sooner we get this over with, the better."

"Wait a minute." Earl stepped forward. "I don't think your ladyship should be driving that motorbike on these roads at night, without lights. I'll take you both down to the village in the jeep, and I'll bring you home again after we drop George off at his house."

She looked at him, knowing he couldn't see the gratitude in her eyes. "I couldn't possibly let you do that, Major," she murmured, just to be polite.

"Let's go." Ignoring her protest, he marched off, heading for the courtyard.

Elizabeth had to run to catch up with his long stride, leaving George straggling behind them. "This is really very good of you," she said between puffs, as they hurried across the grass together. "But I hate to take up your time when you badly need to rest."

"Just how much rest do you think I'd get, knowing you were careening around the countryside in the dark on that darn motorbike?"

Warmed by his concern, she had to remind herself that he was merely being polite. "I'll be just as quick as I can. I simply can't let George handle this by himself. He hasn't the slightest inkling of how to handle these situations. Most men don't."

"Uh-huh. And I guess that ravenous curiosity of yours has nothing whatsoever to do with it, right?"

She smiled. "Of course not."

"Yeah, and my father's the president of the United States."

She gaped at him. "Your father? What happened to Mr. Roosevelt?"

Earl sighed. "He's still president. It's just a figure of speech."

"I see." Elizabeth shook her head. "You Americans have an odd sense of humor."

They reached the courtyard, where the dark shapes of three jeeps sat side by side. Earl opened the door of the first one in line. "Hop in."

She scrambled in, tugging at her skirt to keep it from riding up. "We'd better wait for George," she said as the sound of the jeep's engine splintered the silence.

"I'll pick him up on the way, if I can find my way down without lights. This blackout stuff is a pain in the neck."

Elizabeth glanced up at the sky. "The moon will give us some light."

She was right. The pale glow of moonlight revealed George's burly figure standing at the edge of the lawn, waving frantically at them as they drew close.

"He probably thinks I'm going down to Mrs. Stewart's house without him," Elizabeth commented.

Earl chuckled. "Don't tell me you're not considering it."

"I might, if George weren't carrying the coat and scarf. Without those, we can't be sure that it is Reggie Stewart."

"Maybe it isn't."

"Well, we'll soon find out. The body must have been
there for a while. Which means that if it is Mr. Stewart, he's been missing for the last few days."

"Good point. But then why hasn't his wife reported him missing?"

Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap. "That's exactly what I'd like to know." She jerked forward as the jeep came to an abrupt halt in front of George.

He climbed into the backseat, muttering something under his breath that Elizabeth couldn't quite catch. Wisely, she decided not to ask him to repeat it. She waited until they were speeding down the hill before asking him, "Did Dr. Sheridan say how long he thought the body had been buried?"

"About a week, he reckoned," George said, apparently forgetting he wasn't supposed to be discussing police business. "All them maggots must have had a few days to make that much mess of his face."

Elizabeth's stomach started churning again. "Yes," she said hastily, "I suppose so. Although it seemed to me that his face had been severely beaten before he was buried."

"The doc reckons someone took something like a hammer to his face." George leaned forward and tapped Earl on the shoulder. " 'Ere, mate, we drive on the left side of the road in this country."

"Sorry." Earl swerved to the other side of the road. "Keep forgetting."

"Bloody amazing we don't have a really bad accident on these roads at night," George muttered. "Yanks driving on the wrong side without lights. Bloody miracle, that's what I call it." As if recalling with whom he was traveling, he added quickly, "Begging your pardon, your ladyship."

"That's all right, George" she said cheerfully. "I've often wondered myself how they miss each other."

"Sometimes we don't." Earl braked sharply, sending them all jerking forward. "You didn't tell me where this lady lives."

"Just down here at the end of this lane," Elizabeth said.
"The Stewarts haven't lived here very long. I don't know them too well."

"Hell of a way to get acquainted." Earl pulled up in front of the peaceful-looking cottage. "Guess this is it. Want me to come in?"

Elizabeth looked hopefully at George, who shrugged. "Why not? The more the merrier. Let 'em all come in, that's what I say." He heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Police business isn't what it used to be, that I do know."

"All things change in wartime, George," Elizabeth said as she accepted Earl's hand to help her down from the jeep.

"Don't I bloody know it!" Still grumbling under his breath, George walked through the empty space between two laurel hedges and trudged up the path to the front porch.

With Earl hovering at her side, Elizabeth waited while George rapped the door knocker. From somewhere inside the house a shrill barking erupted, followed by a woman's voice shouting an order. A loud yelp ended the barking, and there was silence for a moment or two, then the door opened just a crack.

"What do you want?" a harsh voice demanded.

"Police Constable Dalrymple here," George said pompously. "I would like to speak to Mrs. Betty Stewart, if you please."

"Don't you have any idea what the flipping time is?" The door opened a little wider. "If you're collecting for the war effort, I've already given up most of my saucepans. And they came and took my iron gate away. What more do I bloody have to give?"

George cleared his throat. "I'm not collecting nothing. In case you haven't noticed, I have Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton here with me, and Major Earl Monroe of the United States Army Air Force."

"Bloody hell." The door opened wide to reveal a plump woman wearing a tattered dressing gown. Her muddy blond hair hung in two long plaits down her back, and
remnants of bright red lipstick clung to her puffy lips. Catching sight of Elizabeth, she made a feeble attempt to smooth the wrinkles from her dressing gown, then tied the cord tighter around her thick waist. "Didn't see you there, your ladyship," she muttered. "Did I do something wrong? I paid the rent just last week."

"It's not about the rent, Mrs. Stewart," Elizabeth said, stepping up to George's side. "May we come in for just a minute?"

Betty Stewart cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. "Well, my house isn't all that tidy right now. Can't you tell me what's wrong out here?"

"Mrs. Stewart," George began, but Elizabeth forestalled him.

"We don't mind at all. We shan't be that long," she said briskly, and stepped purposefully forward until the other woman had to move back and allow her into the house.

"Lady Elizabeth—" George tried again, and this time it was Earl who interrupted him.

"We might as well go in, buddy. The lady is not going to take no for an answer."

"I suppose so." Obviously put out, George stepped into the cottage with Earl hot on his heels.

The house smelled of recently fried bacon, and the parlor looked surprisingly neat and tidy, despite Betty Stewart's apologies. Clean, freshly ironed curtains hung at the windows, and the table that separated a couch from a comfy armchair was free of clutter, except for a small lamp and a rather expensive-looking pipe nestling in an ebony stand.

On the mantelpiece a pair of heavy silver candlesticks caught Elizabeth's eye. They were obviously antique, and probably quite valuable. No doubt handed down from previous generations. She wondered if Betty Stewart was aware of their value. Most people weren't too knowledgeable about such things.

Betty acted as if she'd been invaded by a swarm of
bees. Her gaze flicked from Elizabeth to George to Earl, then over her shoulder and back again while she fiddled with the cord of her dressing gown. "I'd offer you a cup of tea," she said, all the fight fading from her voice, "but I'm out of tea and I don't have much milk. The rationing, you know . . ."