Death Is in the Air (11 page)

“Yes, m’m.” Maisie seemed troubled. “I didn’t do nothing wrong, did I?”

“No, no, not at all.” Elizabeth smiled at the girl to reassure her. “It’s just that when you found the spade you seemed really surprised to see that it was clean.”

“I was!” Maisie nodded with enthusiasm. “I left it all muddied up and forgot about it. We’re supposed to clean the tools before we put them away. Someone must have cleaned it up for me. That was really nice of them to do that.”

Something in Elizabeth’s face must have alerted her, because her smile faltered, and she added hesitantly, “Why are you asking about . . . oh!” Her hand slapped her mouth over her gasp. When she took her hand away again, the color had drained from her face. “You think Amelia was killed with my spade?”

Maisie might be naive, Elizabeth thought ruefully, but she wasn’t stupid. “It’s a very remote possibility,” she said quickly, “so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to anyone about it just yet. We don’t want to cause a lot of trouble over nothing.”

Maisie looked scared, but she nodded. “Mum’s the word,” she said, holding up her right hand. “On my honor.”

“I’m most grateful. By the way, where exactly did you leave the spade that night?”

Maisie thought about it. “Standing against the wall right under Mrs. Macclesby’s bedroom window,” she said at last.

“Thank you, Maisie. You’ve been a big help. Oh, before I forget . . .” Elizabeth reached in her pocket and pulled out the buttons. “Have you ever seen these buttons before?”

Maisie peered at them. “Well, I couldn’t be sure about it, of course. Some of those buttons look all the same. But . . .” She paused, as if reluctant to finish the sentence.

“Yes?” Elizabeth prompted.

“Well, as I said, I couldn’t be sure of course, but they look like the buttons on a reefer jacket. Maurice wears one all the time, and his has got buttons like that.”

Elizabeth closed her fingers over the buttons. “Thank you, Maisie. I won’t keep you any longer. I hope you won’t mention this to anyone else.”

“No, m’m. You can count on me. Cross me heart and hope to die.” She drew a cross with her thumb over her chest.

Elizabeth had to leave it at that.

As she hurried across the field to where Rita Crumm’s army of housewives were ravaging the haystack, she couldn’t help wondering if she’d been wrong about Maurice. In spite of his gentle nature, she had to remember that everyone is capable of murder if given enough reason.

If Amelia Brunswick had cruelly rejected him one time too many, it was entirely possible that something had snapped in Maurice’s unstable mind, and in a fit of rage he hit her with the spade, without even understanding the consequences of his action.

It was also possible, she reminded herself, that Sheila knew what he had done and was covering for him. Which would explain her determination to point her finger at the German pilot. She could hardly blame the woman. After all, it was a mother’s natural and fierce instinct to protect her young.

She reached the group of women just as Rita yelled from behind the haystack, “That’s it, ladies, he’s not here. Reform and regroup!”

The bedraggled women climbed wearily out of the demolished haystack and stood in a huddle, awaiting further orders. They seemed relieved to see Elizabeth and called out a chorus of greetings, no doubt alerting Rita to her presence.

Elizabeth waited for her to make an appearance. It was worth the wait.

Rita marched into view, her hat askew over one eye and a large piece of straw sticking out of her frizzy curls. Pieces of hay clung to her heavily padded shoulders and her pencil thin skirt. Ladders ran up and down her thick
lisle stockings, and a metal buckle was missing from one of her shoes.

Apparently unaware of the spectacle she made, she looked haughtily down her nose at Elizabeth. “Your ladyship. Is there something we can do for you?”

“As a matter of fact, there is.” Elizabeth glanced around the subdued group of women. “But this isn’t the place to discuss it. You all look incredibly weary. Why don’t we all meet in Bessie’s tearoom in about an hour? We can discuss the matter over afternoon tea.”

Rita folded her arms. “We are on an important mission, Lady Elizabeth. I’m sure the ladies would rather you tell us what you want from us right here, so that we can go on looking for that miserable Nazi.”

“Did I mention you are all invited as my guests?”

The reaction from the group was immediate and emphatic. “I’ll be there!” someone called out.

“Me, too!”

“I’m coming as well!”

Obviously realizing she was vastly outnumbered, Rita drew herself up to attention—a move that was spoiled somewhat when the piece of straw in her hair dislodged itself and slid down her nose. Swiping at it with her hand, she said stiffly, “Very well, if you insist. In one hour, then.”

Clara Rigglesby, one of the few of Rita’s followers bold enough to challenge her, spoke up. “You’d better make sure you clean up first, Rita. You look like a bloody scarecrow.”

A couple of the women giggled.

“We all look like we’ve had a romp in the hay with the army boys,” someone else said.

“Wish we had,” a young woman declared. “It might have been worth all this blinking effort.”

A chorus of laughter greeted this remark.

Elizabeth recognized Nellie Smith and smiled. Everyone knew Nellie was still looking for a husband and was
fast approaching the age when she’d be considered an old maid.

Rita must have sensed she was losing control, for she lifted her chin and snapped, “I’ll thank you all to remember that we have the lady of the manor in our presence. So forget the vulgar remarks and prepare to return to the village.”

A general muttering of resentment followed her command, but the women slowly dispersed and headed for the gate.

“I hope whatever you have in mind doesn’t take too long, Lady Elizabeth,” Rita said as she accompanied Elizabeth back to the farmyard. “We must find this murderer and make sure he’s punished for what he did to that poor girl. We can’t allow anything to stop us from carrying out our duty.”

“I quite understand your concern, Rita,” Elizabeth assured her. She reached the gate and waited for the other woman to open it for her. “I can promise you, however, that my proposal is quite important to the war effort, and I feel confident that you and your band of followers are the best people to undertake this assignment.”

In spite of her efforts to appear indifferent, Rita began to look quite excited. “Well, then, I shall look forward to hearing about this mission at the tearoom,” she said as she climbed onto her bicycle.

Elizabeth lifted her hand. “In one hour, Rita.” She watched the line of housewives wobble off along the lane then made her way to the cowshed. A group of soldiers sat around on the grass outside, apparently waiting for further orders. Elizabeth hoped for Sheila’s sake that they soon received a command to move on and leave the poor woman in peace.

Before going in search of Maurice, she made her way around the farmhouse to where the bedroom windows overlooked the paddocks. A thorough examination of the ground revealed nothing. If there had been any
bloodstains there, no doubt they would have been washed out by the recent rains.

She found Maurice inside the cowshed, where he was filling the bins with a mixture of shredded mangold, chaff, sugarbeet pulp, and crushed linseed cake, ready for the afternoon milking.

Elizabeth watched him in silence for a while. When he seemed more comfortable with her presence, she said quietly, “Maurice, do you know who burned the clothes on the bonfire this morning?”

Maurice went on shoveling the cow feed into the bins without any indication he’d understood.

Elizabeth tried again. “Maurice, I found some buttons. Would you look at them and tell me if you recognize them?”

Again Maurice ignored her.

Elizabeth stepped closer to the young man. “I’m sorry to bother you, Maurice, but sooner or later the constables are going to find out what happened to Amelia.” She had no real confidence in that, but one could always live in hope. “It would make everything so much easier if you would tell me what really happened.”

“He doesn’t know what happened,” a sharp voice said from behind her.

Elizabeth swung around to face Sheila Macclesby. She felt a nervous tug in her stomach when she saw the irate expression on Sheila’s face. Obviously she’d overstepped the mark this time and now had some explaining to do.

CHAPTER
11

“Excuse me, Lady Elizabeth, but I thought I told you that Maurice doesn’t know anything about what happened to Amelia.”

Sheila’s voice shook with barely concealed anger, and Elizabeth held up her hands in apology.

“You did, Sheila, and I’m sorry. But I just thought I’d show Maurice the buttons to see if he recognized them.”

Sheila held out her hand, which trembled visibly. “Please give them to me, and I’ll ask him myself.”

Elizabeth emptied the buttons into the woman’s hand and watched her walk over to her son.

In a completely different tone of voice Sheila said quietly, “Maurice, tell me if you’ve seen these buttons before.”

Maurice went on shoveling feed into the bins.

“Maurice,” Sheila repeated. “You must tell us if you’ve seen these buttons before. I need to know now. No one’s going to hurt you, Maurice. You know I won’t allow that.”

Very slowly, Maurice turned his head and looked at his mother’s face, then at the buttons in her hand.

“Have you seen them, Maurice?”

The boy moved his head from side to side in a negative shake.

“Good boy. Now go on with what you’re doing.” Sheila patted him on the shoulder then turned back to Elizabeth. “You’ll have to excuse him, m’m. It’s the shock, you see. He hasn’t spoken since the night Amelia died.”

She’d barely finished speaking when the most terrible sound echoed through the rafters of the cowshed.

Elizabeth’s stomach turned when she realized the awful noise was coming from Maurice—his head thrown back as the agonized wail poured from his mouth in a torrent of uncontrolled grief.

“Oh, poor baby!” Sheila cried and rushed over to his side, her arms enfolding him against her bosom.

Elizabeth left them there, certain she would never forget that dreadful sound for as long as she lived. She was almost at the door of the shed when she saw a navy blue jacket hanging from a nail on one of the doorposts. It was a reefer jacket, and as far as she could see, every highly polished button was intact.

An hour later she parked her motorcycle in the street alongside the tearoom and prepared herself for the forthcoming ordeal. Once Rita found out that the important mission was nothing more demanding than decorating the town hall for a dance, Elizabeth was quite certain she would raise all kinds of objections.

It was up to her, Elizabeth reminded herself, to make the assignment sound as exciting as possible. In any case, it would do some of these women good to get involved with something frivolous for a change. The war
had made things so unutterably dreary, it was up to all of them to make an effort to enjoy themselves for once.

The tearoom was once a part of a rather impressive house, owned by a wealthy merchant at the turn of the century. Shortly after Elizabeth was born, the merchant fell upon bad times, due mostly to the collapse of the British Empire. Deprived of most of his foreign trade, the merchant auctioned his house and moved to London in pursuit of more lucrative endeavors.

Bessie’s father had won the bid and turned the servants’ quarters into a bakery. The wall between the once elegant drawing room and the vast library had been torn down and the space converted into a fashionable tearoom. Bessie, as sole heir, had inherited the business upon her father’s death.

Having been taught as a child and handed down her father’s secret recipes, Bessie proved to be an even better pastry chef than he had been. She had added her own special touches to the quaint tearoom, such as hand-painted flower boxes on all the window sills, shiny horse brasses pinned to black and red leather straps hanging on the walls, and bright copper tea urns decorating the fireplace, where a coal fire burned for much of the year.

Delicate lace curtains hung at the leaded pane windows, and embroidered lace edged the white linen tablecloths, which were lovingly laundered by Bessie and hung on the line to dry in the back garden. The fragrance of fresh flowers and greenery wafted around the arrangements on each table, mingling with the delightful aroma of coffee and fresh-baked bread.

The room had an aura of welcome about it, as if one were paying a private visit to a dear friend’s house, and the cheerful service given by Bessie’s staff emphasized that feeling. Although Elizabeth rarely visited the tearoom, she invariably enjoyed herself here and came away with a conviction that, like the Manor House, as long as Bessie’s tearoom was there, the traditions of
Sitting Marsh would remain relatively unscathed by the ravages of war.

The clamor of chattering voices faded one by one when Elizabeth stepped through the door, until a respectful hush fell over the room. Rita rose from her seat at the table nearest the door, where no doubt she had been holding court over the entire room.

“Lady Elizabeth,” she announced in the haughty tone she reserved for such an occasion.

Elizabeth graciously inclined her head at the murmured echoes of greetings. “I do hope I haven’t kept you all waiting.”

“Not at all, your ladyship,” Rita said briskly. “I think everyone is here. I have reserved a chair for you at my table.”

Elizabeth stifled her pang of resentment at Rita’s obvious attempt to upstage her. “Thank you, Rita, that is most kind of you.” She took the seat offered her and sat down, smoothing her skirt beneath her.

Bessie came bustling out, her face wreathed in smiles as usual. “Lady Elizabeth! I thought I heard your voice. The ladies informed me you were hosting this event this afternoon.”

Elizabeth smiled back. “That’s right, Bessie. Please bring everyone afternoon tea, and I’ll settle with you later.” She would have to come up with a brilliant plan for the settlement of such a large bill, she thought as Bessie scurried away to the kitchen. But that could wait until later. Her proposition was the important issue at that moment.

“Ladies! I have an announcement to make,” she called out, rising to her feet again. “I’d like to get the business part of this meeting over with first, then we can all relax and enjoy our tea.”

An array of hats with curious eyes beneath the various brims turned in her direction.

She waited until she had everyone’s rapt attention then cleared her throat. “As you are no doubt aware,
relations between the Americans and the people of Sitting Marsh have been somewhat strained. I would like to attempt to remedy that.”

A smattering of comments greeted her words, while Rita began, “If I might—”

Elizabeth silenced them all with a raised hand. “Please hear me out, then everyone can have their say. I called a council meeting this afternoon, and we have decided to hold a dance in honor of our American guests. Everyone will be invited, including the soldiers from Beerstowe.”

This time the chatter was much more vibrant. Elizabeth had to shout in order to be heard. “Ladies! The dance will be held this Saturday, and since this is such short notice, we desperately need your help to decorate the town hall and perhaps help Bessie provide refreshments.”

Again a burst of comments and questions broke forth. Rita’s cheeks glowed as she rose, one hand raised to silence her followers. “Ladies, please.” She turned to Elizabeth. “A dance at the town hall, your ladyship? In two days? Isn’t that asking just a bit too much?”

“Go on, Rita, you’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first.” Clara Rigglesby smirked as the others giggled.

“You’re right,” someone else said. “Blimey, just think of the fun we could have at a dance with them Yanks.”

“Better hope our husbands don’t get to hear of it, then,” muttered Joan Plumstone, a thin-faced woman with a sour disposition.

“Oh, belt up, Joan,” her companion said, giving her a nudge in the arm. “Who’s going to tell them? What the eyes don’t see the heart won’t grieve over.”

“Yeah, don’t forget. Loose lips sink ships.”

Nellie Smith, now wearing a large, floppy-brimmed hat, waved her hand. “Your ladyship, does that mean you’re inviting the soldiers from the camp as well?”

“Anyone who wants to come,” Elizabeth assured her.

“How much is it going to cost to go, m’m?” Clara asked.

“I hadn’t really thought about that.” Elizabeth did some fast calculations in her head. “I suppose we could charge everyone sixpence, the way we do at the village hall.”

“At least a shilling,” Rita argued, apparently realizing she was outnumbered in her skepticism. “After all, the town hall is much bigger and better than the village hall.”

“We’re not going to have Ernie’s Entertainers, are we?” someone asked.

A chorus of deep groans followed that question.

“No, we’re not.” Bessie arrived on the scene carrying a huge tray loaded with teapots. “We’re going to play my Philip’s records. You’d all better learn to jive and jitterbug if you’re going to dance with the Yanks.”

A ripple of excitement ran through the crowd.

“I’d like to see a Yank throw me over his shoulder,” a chubby woman commented.

“Better make sure you’re wearing your knickers, Margie,” someone else commented.

An eager-looking woman seated by the window raised her hand. “What about the land girls, m’m? Will they be coming?”

“They’ll be invited,” Elizabeth assured Florrie Evans.

“Ooh, ’eck,” someone muttered, “we’ll have to fight them off if we want to dance with the Yanks.”

Everyone started talking at once, and Elizabeth clapped her hands. She clapped them twice more and begged for silence, still without success.

Deciding to take matters into her own hands, Rita stepped forward and bellowed, “Bleeding well shut your mouths, will you! Her ladyship’s trying to speak!”

Momentarily deafened, Elizabeth clasped her throat as the room fell silent once more. “I just want to remind everyone,” she said after a pause to collect her thoughts, “that this dance is an effort to restore harmony between
the Americans and the people of Sitting Marsh. There will be British soldiers at the dance, just as eager and just as capable of dancing with you as the Americans. I trust you will all remember that and accord everyone the same courtesy. I hope those of you with daughters who might attend will impress upon them the importance of treating the British and the American military alike.”

“You can impress upon them all you like,” Joan muttered, “but that doesn’t mean they’re going to listen.”

“Well, you must make them listen.” Elizabeth gestured at Rita. “Now, Mrs. Crumm will take over and delegate the work of decorating the hall. I realize we have limited supplies, but we should be able to come up with some ideas to make the place look festive.”

The discussion that followed was boisterous, loud, and none too productive. In fact, some of the suggestions were downright ludicrous. Elizabeth was quite thankful when one suggestion to use toilet rolls for decoration was shot down for lack of coupons. She did her best to ignore the uproar and concentrated on enjoying her egg and cress sandwich. The hot buttered scone that followed, lavished with Devon cream and strawberry jam, was even more delicious, especially when washed down with a cup of hot, strong tea.

Rita finally secured a list of names of those willing to meet at the town hall that evening and with an air of bravado informed Elizabeth she had nothing to worry about. “We’ll do the place up, one way or another,” she said, her voice lacking conviction.

“I’m sure I can rely on you and your ladies.” Elizabeth rose from the table. “If there’s anything I can do to help, please don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll have Polly hunt for something that might be useful. My parents used to decorate the Manor House for special occasions. There might be something in the attics you could use.”