Manor House 04 - Dig Deep for Murder (7 page)

At the very first opportunity, she promised herself, she'd run down to the bank and meet Henry Fenworth. Just to satisfy her curiosity, of course. After all, one couldn't expect the local constables to think of everything.

CHAPTER

5

Polly leaned her bicycle against the garden shed and hurried into the house. Ma would be out shopping most of the morning, and she wanted to make sure she was out of the house before Ma got back. Ma didn't know she had the day off and was going on a picnic at the seaside with Sam. She'd carry on something awful if she knew.

Polly opened cupboards, snatching whatever she could find for the picnic. Not that there was much to choose from. She took down a tin of sardines, started to put it back, then changed her mind and stuffed it inside her old school satchel, along with the bread and small square of cheese she'd found in the larder.

Two apples sat in a dish on the sideboard. They looked a bit wrinkled, but Polly grabbed them up and threw them in with the rest of the stuff. She found two bottles of cream soda in the cupboard over the sink, and emptied the tin of broken biscuits into a paper bag. Percy sold the
broken ones off-ration, so she didn't feel so guilty taking them.

Heaving the heavy satchel over her shoulder, she rushed out of the house and started walking up the hill toward the Manor House. Sam had promised to come down in his jeep and fetch her. She didn't want him at the house when Ma got back from shopping. If Ma knew how she felt about Sam, she'd have kittens. She'd put a stop to her working at the manor, that was for sure.

The trouble was, Ma knew Sam was a lot older than her. What Ma didn't know was that Sam thought she was twenty-one, when really she'd only just turned sixteen. Sam was twenty-four, and would probably have nothing to do with her if he knew how old she really was.

Marlene kept saying she should tell him, but she wanted to wait until she was sure he was madly in love with her before she told him. One day she was going to marry him and go to America with him. Polly smiled blissfully as she indulged in her favorite daydream. A house in Hollywood near the sea, with a swimming pool and everything like she saw in the films at the cinema. A house just like the film stars lived in, that's the house she wanted. And Sam was going to get it for her. One day.

So absorbed was she in her dream, it was a shock when the star of her elaborate fantasy roared down the hill toward her.

As always, her first sight of Sam took her breath away. With his brown eyes and thick, dark hair, he was the most gorgeous man she'd ever set eyes on. But it was his voice that really sent her, a deep drawl that thrilled her to the bone.

She'd lie in bed at night, hearing his voice over and over in her mind. He'd kissed her only a few times, but she could remember every second his lips had touched hers, and the weird but exciting feelings she got whenever he was that close to her. Marlene kept warning her to watch herself with him. She told her shocking stories about what men did to young girls when they got heated
up. But so far, Sam had been the perfect gentleman.

In fact, Polly thought wistfully as Sam pulled up beside her, she sort of wished he
would
try something. Not that she'd let him go all the way, of course. But it would be nice to know he wanted to.

"Hey, gorgeous!" Sam grinned down at her, flashing white teeth. "Looking for someone?"

She smiled happily back at him. "Go on with you. You know I was looking for you."

"Well, what are you waiting for, sugar? Hop right in." He patted the seat next to him, and held out his hand for the satchel as she swung it off her shoulder.

Seated next to him, she let the wind take her long black hair as they started off, enjoying the feel of it streaming behind her. "You know how to get to Yarmouth?" she asked, as they turned off at Muggins Corner.

"Sure. I checked it out on the map."

"Well, we're not going to get very far if you keep driving on the wrong side of the road."

"Oh, shit!" Sam swerved to the other side of the road. "Sorry. I do okay until we turn a corner."

She snuggled up to him, her face pressed against his shoulder. "I'll remind you." She took a deep breath through her nose. He smelled so good. English boys didn't smell half as good. She'd never smelled anything as good as Sam. He smelled like a bar of scented soap, only more manly.

"Got a present for you," he said, as they swept down the coast road. "In my pocket, right next to you."

Eagerly she reached into his pocket and pulled out a flat brown cellophane package. "This? What is it?"

"Open it."

She tore it open and peeked inside, then gasped as she pulled out the filmy, delicate fabric. "Stockings! They're so silky and thin. Are they silk?"

"Nylons. All the girls are wearing them Stateside."

"Nylons." She breathed the word, letting the fine material slip through her fingers. She'd heard the girls talk
about them, of course, but this was the very first time she'd actually seen any. They were the most beautiful things she'd ever seen. She couldn't wait to find out how they felt on her legs.

"Thank you ever so much." She carefully slid them back into the package. "I don't wear stockings in the summer, but as soon as it gets cool enough, I'll put them on."

"Do I get to see them on you?"

Polly felt a quiver in her stomach. She'd heard something in his voice that sounded different—disturbing, somehow. "I'll have to think about it," she said lightly, but her mind was racing ahead, imagining herself strutting around with Sam staring at her legs in the filmy nylon stockings. She'd never let anyone see her suspender belt, let alone a man like Sam.

All of a sudden she felt nervous. She wasn't sure she liked the idea of him seeing that much. She didn't want things to change. She just hoped he wasn't going to spoil their day together by trying to do the things that Marlene kept telling her about. If he tried, she'd just have to tell him she was a nice girl and didn't do things like that with men. He'd understand.

She snuggled up to him once more, trying to recapture the heady feeling of moments ago. But somehow the sparkles of sunlight on the ocean didn't seem as bright as they had, and the salty wind felt a little cooler in her face. Although she couldn't say why, she felt sad inside, as if something were already lost and she knew she'd never find it again.

Elizabeth sat at her desk in the quiet office, sorting through a pile of letters that Polly had left for her. Mostly bills, she thought gloomily, as she pored over the scribbled statements. Somehow she would soon have to find a way to raise more money if she were to keep the Manor House running in good order.

Most of the minor repairs could be handled by herself, with the help of Violet and Desmond, whose position as
gardener had kept getting stretched lately into handyman, electrician, plumber, chimney sweep, and anything else his limited skills could manage.

It was the really big jobs that needed more expertise than her household staff could handle. Like roof and chimney repairs, windows replaced, crumbling masonry restored. Not to mention the water system that needed replacing. Despite everyone's best efforts, the pipes still gurgled and groaned every time someone used the bathroom in the east wing.

Before the Americans moved in, that hadn't been much of a problem, but nowadays, with all that banging and teeth-grating screeching in the pipes, at times the great hall sounded like rush hour at Waterloo Station. No wonder poor Martin thought he saw the ghost of her father walking the halls. The noise was enough to waken the dead.

Thinking about Martin's ghosts reminded her of the shadow she'd seen in the kitchen the other night. It did seem that someone might be stealing food from the larder. Yet the only women in the house at that time of night were herself and Violet. Unless Violet was sleepwalking, the only other explanation seemed to be that one of the Americans had taken to wearing skirts. Or perhaps a nightshirt.

Preoccupied with the puzzle, Elizabeth slit open a small envelope with her father's gold-edged paper knife. The ebony handle felt smooth from years of use, and she ran her thumb over it before laying it down. Her parents had been gone three years now, and she still missed them dreadfully. Especially at times like these, when the problems of running the estate threatened to overwhelm her.

She withdrew the slip of paper from inside the envelope and unfolded it. Inscribed in a shaky hand, the words wandered across the page. Elizabeth squinted at the untidy scrawl. After a moment she realized the letter had been written by Fred Bickham. He was giving her notice that he was moving out of the cottage. He was going to Ire
land, where he planned to live with his brother.

Elizabeth frowned. He still owed more than a month's rent. She'd have to get down there before he moved out if she wanted her money. She glanced at the clock. Still an hour before the midday meal. She just had time to pop down there on her motorcycle and talk to Fred.

Just in case, she hunted through a drawer until she found the box that held the keys to all her cottages. Sorting through them, she found the one labeled with Fred's name. Much as she liked Fred Bickham, if he thought he was going to scoot off to Ireland with her rent money in his pocket, he could think again.

Minutes later she was on her way down the hill to Fred's cottage. The blackout curtains still covered the windows, giving her a nasty feeling as she rapped loudly on the door. The feeling intensified while she waited for Fred to answer her knock.

Finally, she made the uncomfortable decision to inspect the cottage. Fred, she knew, suffered from a weak heart, which was why he hadn't been called up. He lived alone, his wife having died of pneumonia a few years ago. There was a strong possibility that she'd find him dead on the floor. The idea made her all the more reluctant to turn the key in the lock. Someone had to do it, however, and she might as well be the one, since she owned the cottage.

Very carefully, she pushed the door open. It was pitch black inside, and she left the door ajar as she stepped into the parlor. She wished now that she'd brought Violet with her to inspect the cottage. Or better yet, Earl Monroe. She never felt afraid or nervous when she was with the major. She could sense a tremendous inner strength in him that seemed to fill her whenever they were together. He made her feel fearless, confident that she could handle whatever life threw at her. No man had ever made her feel that way before.

Right now, however, Earl was somewhere in the skies over Germany, or France, or wherever the war had taken him, and she was alone in this musty, airless cottage
where the silence seemed to hover all around her like a threatening cloud.

She stood for several seconds, heart beating wildly, and listened for a sound that might mean Fred was in the cottage somewhere. The silence grew even more oppressive, and she knew she would have to explore further.

Quickly, she reached for the black curtains and drew them back, flooding the tiny room with sunlight. Dust lay in thick layers everywhere—it danced in the rays of the sun and settled on the clock on the mantelpiece, the candlesticks on the dining table, the radio on the sideboard, the crowded bookshelves in the corner.

Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and one looped from the doorjamb to a lopsided picture frame. Obviously Fred was not the best housekeeper in the world.

Holding her breath, Elizabeth picked her way to the kitchen door and peered inside. Dirty dishes lay in the sink, and a pot half full of soup sat on the stove. If Fred had already gone to Ireland, he'd left in a big hurry.

Withdrawing her head, Elizabeth eyed the narrow staircase opposite the front door. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was go up those stairs. Convinced now that she'd find Fred dead in his bed, she was tempted to call in at the police station and ask George to investigate the bedrooms.

She turned toward the door, then reminded herself she was, after all, the lady of the manor. If she couldn't find the courage to look in on a helpless old man, then she didn't deserve the title. Squaring her shoulders, she slowly climbed the stairs. Each one snapped and creaked, jarring her nerves.

Reaching the top, she stepped onto the landing. In spite of the sunlight below, the shadows were thick and dark in the tiny hallway. Both bedroom doors were closed. After a moment's hesitation, she curled her fingers and rapped with her knuckles on the nearest door. "Fred? Are you in there? Are you all right? It's Lady Elizabeth. I came to see if you were all right."

In the silence that followed, she glanced at the second door. Deciding it couldn't hurt, she wrapped on that one, too. "Fred? It's Lady Elizabeth. Are you there?"

Nothing but silence greeted her efforts. Out of options, she reached for the handle of the first room and turned it. The hinges squeaked and she jumped, every nerve in her body tightening in dreaded anticipation.

Peering inside, she could see nothing in the black depths of the room. Blackout curtains covered the windows, with not even a chink of light filtering through. She opened the door wider and waited for her eyes to adjust. The room smelled like the public bar of the Tudor Arms—a damp, smoky, stagnant smell of spilt beer and stale cigars.

As the gloom gradually lightened, she could make out the bed. The covers were in a heap, the pillows were tossed to the foot, but there was no dead body lying on it.

Conscious of her shallow breathing, Elizabeth edged around the bed to the window. Her hand shook as she drew back the curtains and flooded the room with welcome light. Bracing herself, she turned, and her breath rushed out in a sigh of relief. The room was empty. If Fred had died, he hadn't done so in his bedroom.

Heartened by the fact, she threw open the door of the second room. It, too, was empty, except for two or three packing cases, a couple of boxes, and pages of torn newspaper strewn around. Obviously this was where Fred had done his packing.

As her heart steadied to its normal pace, Elizabeth felt like crying. It very much looked as if Fred had gone to Ireland, taking her rent money with him. Money that she depended on. Every penny of it. In view of all the bills sitting on her desk, this was a calamity that seemed to overwhelm all others.