Manor House 04 - Dig Deep for Murder (6 page)

Elizabeth sent her a look that she immediately translated. Her scrawny shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Just a suggestion." She bent over to pick up the lid of the kettle, and sounded breathless when she straightened. "Poor Polly. What a dreadful thing for her to find. How did his wife take it, poor bugger? Must have been a shock to her."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Elizabeth murmured. "All things considered, she was remarkably calm. I suppose we are all becoming immune to violence and sudden death these days."

Martin lifted his head. "Sad state of affairs, madam. I was just telling your father this morning—"

"Don't start that again, you silly old fool." Violet lit the gas jet under the kettle. "You and your blinking ghosts. You know very well the master is dead."

"He'd be very upset to hear that." Martin finished the last of his porridge. "He looked the picture of health when I left him this morning."

"Blown to bits by a bomb," Violet said deliberately. "Him and Lady Wellsborough both. Nothing left of them to be a ghost, so you couldn't have seen him." She glanced at Elizabeth. "Sorry, Lizzie. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind."

"Quite." Martin dabbed at his mouth with his serviette. "In which case I shall refrain from being kind. May I have your permission to leave the table, madam?"

Elizabeth nodded. "Of course, Martin."

"Thank you, madam. If I may say so, I still find it considerably awkward sharing meals at the kitchen table with your ladyship."

"Yes, Martin. I'm sorry about that." Her answer was purely automatic, for she had engaged in the familiar argument more times than she cared to count. All this talk of ghosts had reminded her of the incident in the kitchen last night.

When she'd thought about it upon wakening that morning, she'd decided it had to be her imagination, but now she wasn't so sure. She waited until Martin had shuffled
at a snail's pace from the room, before asking casually, "Violet, did you say you had food missing from the pantry?"

"I don't know as how you'd call it missing." Violet poured boiling water into a large silver teapot. "I know darn well that Martin has been pinching stuff while my back is turned."

"Maybe not," Elizabeth murmured. "There just might be another explanation for the missing food." Violet stared at her while she recounted her experience of the night before. "I couldn't swear to it, of course," she said, when she was finished. "It was awfully late and quite dark in here."

Violet shook her head. "I'd know if a stranger had broken into my kitchen."

"Not necessarily. It could have been one of the American officers looking for a late supper. Except. . . ." her voice trailed off as she concentrated on the fleeting memory.

"Except what?" Violet demanded sharply.

"Except I thought whoever it was wore a skirt."

"Blimey," Violet said, "you're getting as barmy as the old codger. Seeing things, you are."

"Thank you, Violet. That makes me feel considerably better."

"Sorry, Lizzie, but all this talk of dead bodies in the gardens and ghosts in the kitchen. . . . Seems to me you're letting things get you down. You have to keep a stiff upper lip and all that. Can't let the war get us down. Like Churchill says, blood, sweat, and tears, but we'll never surrender. Or something like that."

Elizabeth smiled. "You're right, Violet. I probably imagined it. It was, after all, a very long evening." She got up from the table. "Where are the dogs? I haven't seen them this morning."

"I shut them up in the stables. You told me not to let them out until you got back. You never got back, and I
couldn't have them piddling all over the kitchen floor, so I put them out back."

"I'm sorry, Violet." Elizabeth hurried to the door. "I just didn't want them digging up the body and making things difficult for the constables. I'd have let them out when I came home last night if I'd known, but I didn't put my motorcycle away last night. I left it outside."

"I know," Violet said, tilting her head to one side. "I saw it. I thought you might have gone out with your major, seeing as how excited you were and all."

"He's not my major." Elizabeth turned away so that Violet couldn't see her expression. "Major Monroe was kind enough to give me a ride into the village, that's all."

"Uh-huh. There's more hanky-panky goes on in them jeeps than in all the bedrooms of Sitting Marsh put together."

Outraged, Elizabeth spun around. "Are you suggesting—"

"I'm not suggesting anything," Violet said calmly. "All I'm saying is that people gossip. Especially in a village the size of this one. I just think you should bear that in mind, that's all."

She should be angry, Elizabeth thought wryly. Except that Violet was right. She had an image to uphold, and there were certain people just waiting for her to compromise herself. "I'll keep it in mind," she promised. "I'm going down to the village this morning, after I've talked to Polly. I'd like to talk to Betty Stewart again, without the constables hovering over us."

Violet narrowed her eyes. "Since her husband was found buried on the manor grounds, I imagine he didn't get there by himself. Which means someone killed him."

"It rather looks that way," Elizabeth admitted.

"Be careful, Lizzie. I wouldn't want to see you mixed up in murder again. You almost got killed the last time."

"I'll be careful." Touched by her housekeeper's concern, she smiled at her. "I promise I'll be back in time for lunch."

"Good. I've got a nice stew and rhubarb pie."

Hungry already, Elizabeth left the kitchen and headed for the office.

She found Polly already there, looking a trifle pale but otherwise her usual exuberant self. "Can I have some time off this afternoon, your ladyship?" she asked, as soon as Elizabeth walked in the room. "Sam's on leave, and he wants to take me to Yarmouth."

Elizabeth glanced at the clock. "Did you call the Labour Exchange in London yesterday?"

"Yes, I did, m'm. They're sending three girls down this afternoon. I made a list of their names and everything." She waved a slip of paper in the air. "They'll be coming down on the bus, so they can walk up from Muggins Corner. I rang the Tudor Arms so they'll have a place to stay tonight. They can catch the bus back in the morning."

"I suppose we should find room for them here," Elizabeth said, half to herself. "That will give us time to observe them all and help us decide which one will work best for us."

"Yes, m'm. Shall I ring the Tudor Arms again and tell them to forget the rooms, then?"

"Yes, do that, Polly. I'll let Violet know we'll have three extra for supper tonight."

Elizabeth turned to leave, then paused as Polly asked tentatively, "Your ladyship? About me leaving early?"

"Oh, yes, I nearly forgot. You can have the rest of the day, Polly. Just be here bright and early in the morning."

"Oh, thank you, m'm!" Polly bounced off her chair, and for a moment Elizabeth thought the girl was going to hug her. "I'll be here early tomorrow, I promise."

"Well, have a good time." As Polly rushed off, Elizabeth wondered if she should have cautioned the child to behave, then decided that should be her mother's job. It occurred to her that Edna might not even know Polly intended spending the day with a man almost ten years her senior. For a moment or two she wrestled with her conscience, then let the matter go. It was wartime, after all.

Twenty minutes later, after having enjoyed a brief romp with the dogs on the lawn, she was on her way down the hill to the village.

Much to her disappointment, Betty Stewart was not at home when she knocked on her door. Elizabeth waited a few moments just in case she had caught the woman at an inopportune moment, but after a minute or two of silence, she gave up. Her conversation with the recent widow would have to wait until later.

She was about to ease her leg over the saddle of her motorbike when a thin, high-pitched voice called her name. Turning, she saw the gaunt figure of Joan Plumstone hurrying down the garden path of the cottage next to the Stewart house.

Elizabeth did not particularly care for Joan. For one thing, she was a staunch friend of Rita Crumm—her second-in-command, so to speak. Joan was also an avid gossip, with a penchant for embroidering the truth if the facts fell short of the desired drama. Elizabeth did her best to avoid the woman whenever possible.

Evidently that would not be possible today. Joan had already reached her garden gate and had pulled it open. "Lady Elizabeth," she called out in her penetrating falsetto, "could I have a word with you, please?"

Elizabeth reluctantly turned to face the woman and offered a desultory greeting.

"Your ladyship." Joan came to a halt in front of her. "I was wondering if you've seen Rita yet? She wanted to ask you if you'd be available to help out at the summer fete this year."

Elizabeth did her best to sound interested. "Please tell her I'll be happy to do what I can."

She turned to leave, but was prevented from doing so when Joan stepped between her and her motorcycle. "Oh, I'm sure there's a great deal that you can do, Lady Elizabeth. We'll need someone to give out the prizes, of course, and judge the dance competition and the baby pageant. We're planning a dog contest as well, so we'll
need judges for that. Perhaps you and that nice major I see you with all the time?"

The gleam in her eyes made Elizabeth long to poke her in one of them. Or both. There were definite disadvantages to having to watch one's image. "I'll see what can be arranged," she said coolly. "It's this Saturday, isn't it?"

"Yes, your ladyship. I know it's short notice, but we weren't sure if we were going to have the fete this year. What with the war going on, and all. Seemed a bit frivolous, if you know what I mean. But you know Rita. Gets her teeth into something and won't let go. She said it would be good for morale. Whatever that means. We've all been working really hard to get everything ready on time."

"Very well, I'll do my best to set some time aside for the event."

"And the major?"

Elizabeth frowned, although Joan's face was the picture of innocence. "I'll mention it to him." She paused, then added deliberately, "If I should run into him."

"Thank you, your ladyship."

"Not at all." Elizabeth waited for the woman to step aside, but Joan seemed determined to hold her ground.

"I couldn't help noticing you and the constable in Betty's house last night," she said, leaving Elizabeth in no doubt as to the real reason she'd confronted her that morning. "Has something happened to Reggie?"

About to pretend ignorance, Elizabeth thought better of it. "What makes you think something happened to him?" she asked, hoping she sounded indifferent.

Joan looked over her shoulder as if afraid of being overheard. "Well, I haven't seen him around for a while. Betty told me he'd gone in the army. Can't see as how they'd take him, though. Got too much weight on his middle and always coughing. Can't be too healthy, if you ask me."

Thoroughly interested in spite of her reservations, Eliz
abeth prompted another response. "It does sound as if he might have been turned down."

"Well, and then there's his drinking. Hardly ever seen him sober, I haven't. His liver must be shriveled up like a prune. Drinks like a fish, and temper to go with it. I don't think he ever has a bath, neither. The dirt's just grimed into his skin. Sometimes he looks just like a black man from Africa."

"Well, he did deliver coal for a living." For some reason, Elizabeth felt compelled to defend the poor man. No matter what he was like, he certainly hadn't deserved to have his face smashed to bits.

Joan was sharper than Elizabeth realized. "Did?" Flushed with anticipation, she lowered her voice. "You mean he's
gorn
, then?"

Inwardly cursing her slip of the tongue, Elizabeth said hastily, "I'm afraid I really can't talk about it right now. Perhaps Mrs. Stewart can tell you more when she comes home."

"I just knew something bad was going to happen to him," Joan declared, once more effectively halting Elizabeth's escape. "I could see it coming."

"Oh?" Elizabeth tried to sound only mildly interested, but she doubted if Joan had even heard her. The woman couldn't wait to rattle off everything she knew.

"Used to argue something terrible, they did. The two of them. They had a dreadful row right out here on the street. Reggie was going on and on about Betty spending all her time at the bank. Accused her of making eyes at Henry, he did."

"Henry?"

Joan's voice had an edge to it. "Henry Fenworth, your ladyship. The manager at the bank in the High Street? Hasn't been there that long. Widower, he is. Nice-looking chap. Too young for Betty, I'd say. Then again, there's no accounting for taste. Don't know why he's not in the Army, though. Must have something wrong with him, I s'pose. Still, he's more Betty's type than that filthy drunk
she married. Had to get married, she did. She was six months along at the wedding. Then she lost the baby. Never had another. Doesn't surprise me. I would never let filth like that touch me. I reckon he forced her the first time. Can't see her doing it otherwise. I think—"

Deciding it was high time she put a stop to this flow of gossip, Elizabeth said firmly, "Well, I really must be running along. Please tell Rita I shall do my best to help out at the fete."

"I will, m'm. Thank—"

The rest of the sentence was drowned out by the roar of Elizabeth's motorcycle. As she rode back up the hill, she went over everything that Joan Plumstone had told her. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to pay a visit to the bank. She hadn't met the manager yet, and with her shaky finances, it might be a good idea to make his acquaintance. Besides, she couldn't help wondering just how much truth there was in Reggie Stewart's accusations.

Someone had brutally murdered Reggie, apparently in a fit of rage. Could a love triangle have been the motive? It was certainly worth investigating.

It would have to wait for a while, however. With Polly gone for the day, she had a golden opportunity to catch up on tasks in the office that had gone neglected lately. Polly was a great help, but she could be a very distracting presence at times.