Manor House 04 - Dig Deep for Murder (9 page)

Sam reached out and took hold of her hand. "I thought you'd enjoy it more than a picnic. Though it was real sweet of you to bring all that food."

"It wasn't very good food. I'd rather have a plough-man's lunch any day." She looked down at the slices of cheese, ham, apple, pickle, and crusty bread that covered her plate. "I haven't seen this much food on a plate in years. Wonder how they do it on the ration?"

"I reckon they get special supplies."

"They must do." She took a bite of the tangy Gorgonzola cheese and washed it down with the gin.

Sam looked across the room to where a group of young girls sat laughing together. "I still can't get used to seeing
young kids drinking in the bars. You have to be twenty-one to drink in the States."

"Really?" Polly pulled a face. "Can't see 'em standing for that here. No one takes that much notice of how old you are in the pubs. Unless you're a little kid, of course. Then you'd have to have lemonade."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "They let little kids into the bars?"

"They can go in a pub, but they can't drink beer and stuff. They're supposed to be sixteen, but I've been drinking for two years, and I'm only just sixteen now—" She stopped short, unable to believe she'd actually said the words.

The silence between them seemed to go on and on, while she stared miserably at her plate and prayed that Sam hadn't heard her. Her heart seemed to drop all the way down to her sandals when he said in a strangled voice, "You're
what?
"

For several frantic seconds she considered bluffing her way out, saying she was teasing or something. She'd never been a very good liar, however, and this was one lie she'd been living with for a long time. Too long. It was time she told him. In a way it would be a big relief not to have to pretend anymore.

"Did I hear you right?" Sam shook the hand he was holding. "Polly? You're joking, right? You're twenty-one. Aren't you?"

Slowly she shook her head.

"Just how old are you, then, for chrissake?"

Her lips felt tight and dry and she had to force them to move. "I told you," she whispered. "I'm sixteen."

She didn't dare look at him. He let go of her hand, and a wave of misery swept over her.

"You can't be sixteen . . . you just had a birthday."

"It was my sixteenth birthday."

"You mean . . . you were fifteen until a few weeks ago? All the time we've been seeing each other you were only fifteen?"

His voice sounded weird. She nodded without looking up.

"Jesus Christ." Out of the corner of her eye she saw him lift a half-full glass of ale. Seconds later he put it down empty. "Do you have any idea how much trouble I could be in? Why the hell did you tell me you were twenty when we first met?"

She shrugged. "I thought you wouldn't go out with me if you knew I was only fifteen."

"Damn right I wouldn't."

She tried desperately to think of something to say, anything that would take back the last few minutes and have everything go back to the way it was.

"Finish your lunch," Sam said curtly.

"I'm not hungry." She was never going to eat again. She was afraid she'd lost Sam, and her life would be over. Without him, nothing else mattered. Nothing at all. She just wanted to die.

Elizabeth stood at the door of the bank and glanced up at the huge clock overhead. If she went in now, she'd be late getting back to the Manor House and Violet would never let her hear the last of it. But the opportunity to watch Betty Stewart and Henry Fenworth together was too good to miss. Making up her mind, she stepped inside the quiet building.

She spotted her quarry at once. It wasn't difficult, considering Betty Stewart sat just a few yards away at a desk, across from a dark-haired man who wore black-rimmed spectacles and had a pipe stuck in the corner of his mouth. Apart from an elderly woman at the counter, there were no other customers in the bank.

Elizabeth pretended to be searching in her handbag for something while she strained to hear the conversation going on just out of earshot. The low murmur was too soft to distinguish the words, and she edged closer.

The man's voice was low and soothing; Betty Stewart
seemed agitated. Her voice rose a notch or two, and Elizabeth heard her quite plainly.

"You can believe what you want," she muttered fiercely. "But it's the truth."

Just then, her companion raised his head and caught sight of Elizabeth. He rose to his feet immediately, removing his pipe from his mouth. "Your ladyship! How nice to finally meet you." He edged around the desk and came toward her. "I'm Henry Fenworth, the new manager of this bank. I've seen you in the High Street many times, but I've never had the pleasure of meeting you until now. Your housekeeper, Violet Winters, usually attends to your banking needs, does she not?"

Elizabeth smiled at him. "She did do, Mr. Fenworth, but now that Polly Barnett has taken over as my assistant, she will be taking care of everything in future. I thought I'd come in and inform you of that myself. Just so you know I have authorized her to conduct my business."

It was a brilliant piece of quick thinking, and Elizabeth felt quite pleased with herself. She turned to Betty Stewart, who had risen from her chair and now stood staring at the door as if she were ready to bolt through it at the slightest provocation.

"Good morning, Betty," Elizabeth said, with a friendly nod. "How nice to see you again. I wonder if I might drop by your house later this afternoon. There's something I'd like to discuss with you."

Betty Stewart exchanged a nervous glance with Henry. "If it's about my finances, your ladyship, I'll be able to manage the rent. I'm getting a job at the factory next week, and—"

"No, no, it's not about the rent." Elizabeth glanced at the clock again. "I really don't have time to talk about it now. Perhaps later this afternoon?"

Betty Stewart looked as if she'd like to refuse, but then gave a reluctant nod. "This afternoon, your ladyship."

"Wonderful." Elizabeth beamed at Henry Fenworth,
whose forehead wore deep creases. "So nice to finally meet you, Mr. Fenworth."

"Oh, please, do call me Henry." He hurried to the door and dragged it open for her. "If there's anything I can do for you, please don't hesitate to ask."

Which was awfully decent of him, Elizabeth thought as she hurried outside, considering he had to be well aware of her rocky financial situation. She wondered what he would have said if she'd asked for a large loan. She was almost tempted to find out, but she reminded herself that as lady of the manor, taking out a loan from the bank would be considered quite vulgar.

She arrived back at the manor to find Violet in a nasty temper. Martin was already seated at the kitchen table, though there was no food in front of him. Violet stood over him, berating him for taking the remainder of the rhubarb pie she'd planned on serving for lunch.

She looked up as Elizabeth entered through the back door of the kitchen, while Martin struggled dutifully to his feet.

"Madam! What on earth were you doing out there in the kitchen yard?"

"Digging up vegetables, I shouldn't wonder," Violet snapped, giving her a baleful look. "You're late for lunch, Lizzie. What's left of it after this old fool has scrounged half of it."

"I keep telling you," Martin said, leaning on the table to support his feeble frame, "I haven't taken anything from the larder. It's all I can do to swallow what you put in front of me as it is."

"And what does that mean?" Violet folded her arms and glared at him.

"It means, my dear lady, that your cooking skills are somewhat limited. The results leave much to be desired."

"It's not my cooking that's limited, you old goat, it's the food what's limited. It's not my fault if I can't get butter and cream and eggs. It doesn't help matters when
people go creeping around behind my back, stealing whatever they can lay their filthy hands on."

"It's not Martin," Elizabeth said, sinking onto her chair. "It seems there might be a thief sneaking around the village, stealing food and clothes from people's houses."

Martin's bones creaked as he lowered himself carefully onto his chair. "Thank you, madam. I'm glad there's at least one person in this household who doesn't jump to conclusions and make false accusations." He glowered at Violet. "In my day women who spoke out of turn were beaten and thrown in the cellar to consider the error of their ways."

"In your day they were likely chopping the heads off of silly old goats who talked too much," Violet snapped. "Seems like a good idea to me." She turned to Elizabeth. "So what's all this about a thief in the village, then?"

"I heard this morning that another house had been broken into and robbed. It might be an idea to keep that kitchen door locked at night."

"Oh, Lord, whatever next?" Violet placed a plate in front of Elizabeth. "As if we don't have enough to worry about."

"That's pretty much what George said." Elizabeth watched without enthusiasm as Violet ladled minced beef, swimming in gravy, onto her plate.

Violet snorted. "Seems to me them two constables don't have enough to do. What are they doing about finding out who killed Reggie Stewart, then? Nothing, I suppose."

"They're doing their best, I'm sure." Elizabeth picked up her fork and poked at her mashed potatoes. "Tell me, Violet, what do you think of Henry Fenworth?"

"The bank manager?" Violet shrugged her bony shoulders. "He's all right, I s'pose. Bit of a pouf, if you ask me. After all, he's not married and he's got to be at least thirty-five. Ain't natural, that's what I say."

"If you ask me, I'd say the fellow has some jolly good sense," Martin said. "No such thing as a good woman
these days. They are entirely too bossy and outspoken."

"Well, nobody asked you, so get on with your lunch before it gets cold."

"How do you know Henry Fenworth isn't married?" Elizabeth gingerly tasted the meat. It wasn't as bad as she'd feared. Violet's skills seemed to be improving lately.

"I know, because I heard some of the women talking about him." Violet brought her plate to the table and sat down. "I think they were trying to get him together with Nellie Smith. She's never been married neither. Make a good pair, them two."

Elizabeth swirled gravy into her mashed potatoes. "Did anyone ever say anything about Betty Stewart and Henry?"

Violet stared at her. "Betty Stewart? She's married, isn't she? Or she was, poor bugger. Besides, she's older than Henry Fenworth. What would she have to do with him, for Gawd's sake?"

That, Elizabeth thought wryly, was a very good question. And one for which she'd dearly love to have an answer.

CHAPTER

7

Polly sat in miserable silence as the jeep sped along the country roads. Sam hadn't spoken to her since they'd left Yarmouth. He sat next to her, his face a stone mask. It broke her heart to look at him, so she kept her gaze on the road, not even bothering to remind him when he turned the corners on the wrong side.

Right now she didn't care if she lived or died. All her dreams, her whole future life, had vanished in a second. It was like a bomb had dropped from the sky, and everything that mattered to her had been blown to smithereens.

She knew that Sam had to be really, really angry, because of the way he shot around the bends, almost tipping her out as she rocked from side to side. She should be scared, but somehow she wasn't. It was as if everything inside her had died, and she had no feelings at all. Except for the horrible stabbing pain in her belly. Then again, that could be her drinking gin on an empty stomach.

They screamed around the next bend and took the corner on two wheels. As they rocked upright, Polly's eyes widened. Right in front of them was an old man on a bicycle. It was like he'd appeared out of nowhere. She screeched at the top of her lungs. Sam swore, then everything went crazy. The jeep swerved and bucked across the road, then seemed to sail through the air.

"Hang on!" Sam yelled, but it was too late. Polly felt herself floating free of the jeep, and then everything went black.

"I'm going into the village," Elizabeth said, absently patting Gracie's furry head as the dog rested her jaw on her knee. "I have some errands to run."

"You should let Polly do that for you," Violet said as she immersed a pile of dishes in the soapy suds in the sink. "Where is she, anyway? She didn't come down for her sandwich."

"I gave her the day off." Elizabeth gently pushed the dog away and got to her feet. "I believe she's gone into Yarmouth with her squadron leader."

Violet clicked her tongue. "That child is far too young to be running around with Yanks. Her father wouldn't stand for it if he knew. I can't understand her mother allowing it."

Knowing Polly, Elizabeth doubted that Edna knew about the relationship. She wasn't about to tell Violet that, however. Much as she personally disapproved of Polly's infatuation with the older man, she liked Sam Cutter, and held on to the hope that he would treat Polly with respect.

"I should be back before the applicants get here this afternoon." She paused at the door. "Can I bring something back from the village for supper? We'll have three extra, remember."

"I'll manage." Violet wiped her hands on her apron. I've got some mince left. I'll mix it with some tins of spaghetti and we can have it on toast."

Not exactly a gourmet meal, Elizabeth thought wryly,
but it would have to do. "Well, if I'm not back in time, you get started with the interviews. After all, you're the one who will have the most contact with the new maid. I just hope there will be someone suitable. It's so hard to find anyone willing to do domestic service these days."

"Well, they can't be any worse than Polly," Violet said shortly.

Elizabeth smiled. In spite of Violet's acid comments, she knew quite well that her housekeeper had a soft spot for Polly. If the truth were known, Violet missed having Polly to boss around more than she was willing to admit. The two of them had their spats, but they understood each other. It might not be so easy for Violet to control a London girl. They were far more independent than their country counterparts.