Death Is in the Air (14 page)

Their shop handed down from generation to generation, the Finnegan tailors had clothed the people of Sitting Marsh through the various fashion changes, from crinolines and corsets to short skirts and suspenders. Hemlines had gradually narrowed and risen over the
years and now seemed to go up and down with every change of season. Through it all the Finnegans had treated their customers with courtesy and good old-fashioned Irish humor.

Rosie was no exception. Though quieter than many of her ancestors, she had a sense of dry humor that never let her down, even in the most trying times.

She greeted Elizabeth with a smile and a hot cup of tea laced with Irish whiskey—a treat that made a visit to Finnegan’s worthwhile.

Sipping the potent brew from a thick china mug, Elizabeth listened to Rosie’s account of the fight at the Tudor Arms. When she had finished, Elizabeth told her about the dance at the town hall.

“I’d appreciate it if you would put some notices up in your window about it,” she said, looking around for somewhere to put down her mug.

Rosie took it out of her hand. “Be happy to, your ladyship. Bit of a short notice though, isn’t it?”

“It is really, I suppose.” Elizabeth leaned forward to finger a pale green silk gown hanging close by. Normally she bought all her clothes in London, staying overnight to give herself plenty of time to explore Harrods as well as the little boutiques in Oxford Street. Since the death of her parents, however, shopping in London had lost much of its charm.

“How much is this?” she murmured. The dress was a tad shorter than she was used to wearing, but she rather liked the flow of the skirt and the somewhat daring neckline was very flattering.

“It’s rather expensive,” Rosie said. “Five pounds, eleven shillings.”

Elizabeth almost smiled. In the days when she’d had money, she’d thought nothing of spending five times that amount on a dress. Now she would have to think twice before splashing out on this one.

There was the dance tomorrow, of course. She hadn’t been dancing since her marriage to Harry Compton.
Harry didn’t like dancing. But then, Harry hadn’t cared for any of her favorite pursuits. All Harry had worried about was which horse race to bet on, or which dog would win the Gold Cup.

It would be rather nice to go dancing again. And she hadn’t bought anything in ages. “I’d like to try this on,” she announced.

Rosie’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? How wonderful! This will look absolutely gorgeous on you, m’m. I just know it.” She showed Elizabeth into the minuscule dressing room and left her to try on the dress.

After removing her skirt and jumper, Elizabeth pulled the cool, slinky fabric over her head and let it fall into place. The shimmery green skirt clung to her hips, making her look at least five pounds slimmer. The color brought out the green in her hazel eyes. It was very definitely
her
dress. Just wait until Major Earl Monroe saw her in this little number.

The second the thought entered her head she was swamped with guilt. For a moment she was seized with an urge to tear off the dress and throw it in the corner where it couldn’t tempt her anymore.

In the next instant she chided herself for being so juvenile. After all, she wasn’t buying the dress for
him.
She’d had no intention of buying anything when she’d come to the shop. She had just as much right to buy a new dress as anyone else. Even if the money would be better spent on the gurgling water pipes.

Still arguing with herself, she slipped out of the gown and back into her sensible clothes. Then, with the dress draped over her arm, she walked back out into the shop, half afraid that the entire population of Sitting Marsh was waiting outside to sit in judgement of her.

Rosie was still alone, however, waiting for her with an expectant smile on her face. “How did it look, m’m?” she asked with an obvious and quite unsuccessful attempt not to seem too eager.

“Rather nice, actually.” Shutting off the accusing
voice in her mind, Elizabeth handed over the gown. “I’ll take it.”

“That’s wonderful. This will look so nice on you, m’m. Shall I have it sent up to the house?”

“No,” Elizabeth said hastily. “I’ll take it with me.”

“Ah, going to wear it to the dance, m’m, are we? Very nice, too.” Beaming, Rosie bore the creation away to be wrapped.

Elizabeth wandered around the shop while she waited, only half listening to Rosie’s chatter from behind the counter.

“I don’t normally carry such an expensive line in my shop,” she said as she carried the package back to Elizabeth. “But I fell in love with this one. Would have liked it for myself, really, but I can’t afford to pay that much for a dress.”

She handed the package to Elizabeth, who took it from her as tenderly as if she were accepting a newborn baby. “Just put it on my account,” she murmured automatically.

“Er—you don’t have an account at Finnegan’s, Lady Elizabeth.” Rosie looked embarrassed. “But I’ll open one for you right away, of course.” She scurried back to the counter and began scribbling in a small ledger.

Feeling guilty again, Elizabeth waited for her to finish. She could hardly tell the woman that she didn’t have enough cash to pay for the dress until the monthly rents were in.

When Rosie finally closed the ledger, Elizabeth handed her the buttons she’d been carrying in her pocket. “I was wondering if you’ve ever seen buttons like these before,” she said casually. “They look as if they might come from a military uniform, though I don’t recognize the emblem on them.”

Rosie took the buttons and examined them. “They’re not military buttons,” she said at last. “The shanks are too fancy. I’d say they are more like blazer buttons, made to look as if they’re military.” She frowned, then
added, “Wait a minute, m’m. I think I know where I might have seen buttons like these before.”

She hurried out from behind the counter and crossed to the far wall, where a line of coats hung from a rack. “I’ve only just brought these out since the cooler weather came in a few weeks ago. They’ve been in storage since last winter, so I’m not sure but—” She broke off with a muttered explanation. “I thought so. Here.” She pulled a navy blue reefer jacket off the rack and carried it over to Elizabeth. “See, m’m? They’re identical.”

“So they are,” Elizabeth said slowly. “Have you sold many of these jackets lately?”

Rosie shook her head. “Not cold enough yet, is it, m’m. I’ve only sold two so far. One to Captain Carbunkle—he buys a new one every year—though I don’t know why. I’ve known these things to last ten years or more.”

Elizabeth lifted the sleeve of the thick, heavy wool garment. “And who bought the other one?”

“Sheila Macclesby. She was just in here day before yesterday. She told me Maurice had outgrown his old one, but if you ask me he probably lost it. That Maurice has never been right in the head. Makes me wonder how he ever gets the work done, now that Wally’s not there. ’Course, the land girls help out a lot, I suppose, but I always say farming is men’s work . . .”

Elizabeth nodded, listening with only half her mind. The other half was remembering the shiny buttons on the reefer jacket hanging in the cowshed and the blackened ones she’d dug out of the bonfire. There didn’t seem any doubt now that the land girls had been right. It looked very much as if Maurice Macclesby had killed Amelia.

Had he had the presence of mind to hide his reefer jacket in the sacks to be burned? It seemed doubtful. More likely, his mother heard him arguing with Amelia that night and possibly discovered the body later. She
could have seen the blood on Maurice’s jacket and burned it to protect him.

Elizabeth thanked Rosie and left the shop, her mind still mulling over the possibilities. Sheila could also be the one who hid the body in the woods, hoping to place the blame for Amelia’s death on the German. All possible, but how in the world was she going to prove it?

The evidence had been destroyed; the murder weapon—if the spade was, indeed, the murder weapon—had been throughly cleaned. The only witness to the murder would die herself before she incriminated her son. Elizabeth sighed. Once more it appeared that she was up against a solid brick wall.

CHAPTER
14

The next day passed in a flurry of activity as everyone worked together to prepare for the dance. Elizabeth had been quite pleased with Polly’s work in the office the day before and decided to delegate some more duties. Thus leaving her more time to concentrate on the dance.

She’d tried to catch Major Monroe before he left that morning, in the hopes of finding out exactly what he planned to bring in the way of spirits, and was quite disappointed when informed by one of his officers that the major had left for the base in the early hours of the morning.

The significance of that disquieted her a great deal, and her thoughts kept returning to him throughout the day, despite her best efforts to put him out of her mind.

An hour before the dance was to begin, Polly had been dispensed to help Bessie deliver the gramophone and records. She arrived at Bessie’s cottage to find her
on her hands and knees in front of a small cabinet, doing her best to break it open with a dinner knife.

“It’s locked,” she explained when Polly crouched down beside her. “I can’t find the key anywhere. I had it in that little blue egg cup on the mantelpiece, but it’s not there now. All I can think is that the cat knocked it down, and it’s rolled under the settee. It’s too heavy to move on my own, but now you’re here . . .”

She looked hopefully at Polly, who shook her head. “We don’t have time for that now,” she said briskly. “I’ve got a better idea.”

She reached up to the knot of hair that Marlene had carefully piled up and pinned for her. Her fingers found a hairpin, and she drew it out carefully so as not to disturb the elaborate arrangement. Marlene would kill her if she messed up her hairdo now. She’d wanted a wave down the side of her face like Veronica Lake, but Marlene had talked her into wearing it on top of her head. She had to admit the style made her feel much older and more sophisticated.

In return she’d promised to tell everyone that Marlene had done her hair, so that her sister might get some new customers from North Horsham. There were bound to be girls coming to the dance from there, once the word got around. Word got around really fast in that town.

Realizing that Bessie was watching her with a worried expression, Polly grinned at her. “Watch this.” She poked the hairpin into the keyhole, jiggled it around for a moment or two until she felt the lock release, then pulled out the pin. “Now try it.”

Bessie’s expression was skeptical as she twisted the handle, but it turned to amazement when the door opened easily. “How in the world did you do that?”

Polly shrugged. “A boy in school taught me. I kept losing the key to my desk, so he showed me how to open it with a hairpin. I got really good at it after doing it a few times.”

“Well, it might be as well to keep that little talent to
yourself,” Bessie warned as she drew out a pile of records. “Here, have a look through these.”

Polly sat down on the carpet to examine the platters. “Crikey!” she exclaimed. “Look at all these. Benny Goodman, Louis Armstrong, Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, Ted Heath, Duke Ellington . . .” She held one up in the air. “Frank Sinatra! My favorite! This is going to be a groovy dance. I can’t wait to boogie-woogie with my Sam.”

Bessie’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “What does all that mean?”

“It’s jive talk.” Polly went on sorting through the records. “The Yanks use it all the time.”

“I always thought the Americans talked English.” Bessie got up from her knees with a groan. “I’m beginning to think they talk a foreign language after all.”

“I know. I have trouble understanding Sam sometimes. He comes from Tennessee and really slurs his words.”

“Aren’t you a bit young to be going out with Yanks?”

Polly scrambled to her feet. “I’m old enough. As old as most of them, anyway.”

Bessie shook her head. “They’re too young to be fighting in a war. It’s criminal, that’s what I call it.”

Polly felt a stab of sympathy for Bessie. With her husband dead and both her boys fighting abroad, she must be feeling really lonely. Obeying an unexpected impulse, she put her arm around the woman’s shoulders. “Tell you what, I’ll introduce you to some of the Yanks tonight. They’re all nice boys, and you could sort of mother them. They must be missing their mums as much as you miss your boys.”

Bessie wiped a tear from her eye. “You’re a good girl, Polly, and that’s a fact.” She beamed her familiar smile. “Come on, let’s get these records over there so you can start dancing with your Sam.”

“I just hope he gets there soon.” Polly piled the platters into the shopping bag that Bessie held out to her.
“None of them had come back when I left.” She couldn’t voice aloud the thought that followed.
Please God, let him be all right.

“You look very nice, madam,” Martin announced when Elizabeth met him in the front hallway. “I hadn’t realized you were going on the town. Shall I have Geoffrey bring around the horses?”

Elizabeth didn’t have the heart to remind Martin that Geoffrey had died of tuberculosis many years ago. “That won’t be necessary, thank you, Martin. I’ll be using other transportation tonight.”

Martin gave her a shrewd look. “Not that infernal machine that American drives around, I hope? It makes enough noise to wake the dead. I can’t fathom for the life of me why they don’t use their horses. I thought Americans rode horses everywhere.”

“Only in certain parts of America, I believe.” Elizabeth spoke automatically; her mind was elsewhere. It was well past eight o’clock, and so far there had been no sign of Major Monroe. She’d waited in the library in a fever of excitement, which had gradually diminished as the seconds had ticked by in that lonely room. Now she was beginning to get worried.

“You haven’t seen any sign of the Americans this evening, have you?” she asked Martin. Perhaps she’d missed him somehow, and he’d gone on to the dance with his fellow officers.

“The American motorcars have not arrived back yet this evening,” Martin said, glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner. “They are rather late, come to think of it.”

Elizabeth suddenly felt cold. “Well, yes, I suppose I should be getting down to the town hall. If you see Major Monroe, please tell him I have already left and will meet him at the dance.”

“Dashed ungentlemanly, if I might say so, ma’am. One does not abandon an appointment with a lady for
any reason. Those Americans have a lot to learn about manners.”

“I’m sure the major would have kept his appointment if he’d been able to do so,” Elizabeth said quietly, “which is precisely what worries me.” She headed for the door, trying to ignore the icicles forming in her stomach. “Don’t wait up for me, Martin. Violet and I will probably be late.”

Martin looked surprised. “I wasn’t aware Violet was going to accompany you tonight, madam.”

“She will be at the town hall, helping with the refreshments.” Elizabeth peered at him over her shoulder. “Please don’t do anything too strenuous tonight, Martin. I don’t want you to hurt yourself when there is no one in the house to help you.”

“I’ll do my best not to hurt myself at any time, madam.”

She smiled fondly at him. “Yes, well, you know what I mean.”

“Wait a moment, madam. I’ll get the door for you.”

She waited for him to shuffle toward her, her gaze drifting past him to the stairs leading to the great hall. If only she could see the major’s tall figure striding down those stairs. Impossible, of course, if the Jeeps hadn’t arrived back. Still, it was hard not to hope for a miracle.

Martin finally reached the door and pulled it open. A gust of cool air greeted her as she stepped outside into the darkening evening. Soon the clocks would be turned back an hour, and the evenings would disappear altogether, swallowed up in the winter darkness that could fall as early as four in the afternoon. It was a depressing thought.

The depression weighed heavily on her shoulders as she climbed aboard her motorcycle. Fastening her head scarf more firmly under her chin, she braced herself for the cold ride to the town hall. In spite of the silver fox coat she wore, the wind from the sea would chill her
bones. She could only hope that the town hall radiators were working properly and that the dance hall would be warm, though something told her she would not lose the chill over her heart until she saw the burly frame of Major Earl Monroe walking through the door to greet her.

“Look at this. Have you ever seen such a beautiful sight in all your life?” Marlene’s voice was hushed in awe as she gazed around the crowded ballroom.

Polly followed her gaze. “Are you talking about the decorations or the men?”

Marlene grinned. “Both. Just look at those Yanks dance! Our boys can’t dance like that.”

“They’re not even trying.” Polly nodded at the walls lined with British soldiers, most of them with scowls on their faces. “They don’t look very happy, do they?”

“I can see why. What with all the girls out there on the floor with the Yanks. Look, there’s Lilly Crumm. Trust her to grab a Yank.”

“I’m surprised her ma isn’t out there with one, too.” Polly gasped as she watched a tall, skinny American airman swing Lilly through his legs, then up over his back where she was suspended upside down for a heart-pounding second or two before being bounced back on her feet.

“No wonder they call it swing,” Polly murmured. “Them Yanks are swinging the girls all over the place.”

“So where is your Sam, then?” Marlene sent a searching glance around the room. “Can’t see him anywhere.”

Polly’s stomach turned over. “He’s not here yet. Must have been kept late at the base.” She pretended not to notice Marlene’s quick look of concern.

“He’ll probably be here any minute.”

“Yeah, I hope so.”
He had to be there. It wouldn’t be the same without him.
She’d got all dressed up for him and had put on the nylons he’d got her from the base. She just loved those nylons. She wouldn’t have believed
how silky and sheer stockings could be until she’d pulled on one of those filmy, almost transparent scraps of fabric over her legs. Just wearing them made her feel sort of slinky and ritzy.

She’d hitched up the skirt of her pink seersucker frock once she’d left the house and escaped from Ma’s sharp eyes. She didn’t really like the dress. It was too babyish. She’d wanted the black one hanging in Finnegan’s big window, but Ma had put her foot down. Said it was too old for her.

At first she’d sworn never to wear the soppy pink thing. Then Marlene had shown her how to hitch up the skirt and pull the sweetheart neckline down lower, and it hadn’t looked half bad after that. Though she still wished she could have had the black frock.

Idly she watched a good-looking Yank stroll over in her direction. Normally she’d have been all in a tizzy to see a man like that heading toward her. Funny how nobody seemed worth bothering about now that she had Sam. She sent another worried glance at the door.
Where the bloody hell was he?

The dark-haired, dark-eyed Yank paused in front of her. She was all set to send him on his way with a polite refusal when he stepped past her and offered his hand to Marlene. “Wanna boogie?”

Marlene’s face turned bright red. “I don’t know if I can do it,” she said nervously.

Polly gave her a mighty shove with her shoulder. “’Course you can do it, silly. Just let him throw you about, that’s all. He has to do all the work.”

The American shot her a grin. “Thanks, babe.” He grabbed Marlene’s hand. “Come on, sugar, I’ll show you how it’s done.” He charged onto the floor, dragging a protesting Marlene behind him.