Manor House 03 - For Whom Death Tolls (19 page)

"Too bad. Here." He pulled off his cap and handed it to her. "You can hold this for me instead."

Before she could answer, he smoothed a hand over his hair, then strode off across the field to join his teammates.

The next hour, as Elizabeth commented later, could only be described as pure bedlam. The Americans, used to playing baseball, had the devil of a job trying to hold the long, narrow cricket bat in the right position, much less actually hit the ball.

Captain Carbunkle spent several long-winded minutes explaining the concept of trying to prevent the bails from leaving the wickets, and how to score runs. Then the first volunteer, a beefy American with ginger hair, stepped up to the wicket, hefted the bat and waited for Percy to bowl.

Percy took his run and the ball came in low and fast. Taken by surprise, the American lifted the bat and wielded it as if he were attempting to hit a baseball. Realizing at the last minute that the ball was lower than he expected, he swung the bat behind him and knocked the bails flying.

"You're out!" Carbunkle bellowed.

He was a big man, with a full beard and a voice like
a foghorn. The American leaped in the air and dropped the bat. "Whaddaya mean, I'm out?"

"Bails off the wickets." Carbunkle held up the small pieces of rounded wood that had rested on the three wooden stumps. "That means you're out."

"What about my three strikes?"

Carbunkle looked confused. "Don't know anything about strikes, young fella. All I can tell you is you're out, until the next over, that is. Then you'll be in again."

The American scratched his head. "What's over? I haven't even begun to play yet."

"Nothing's over yet. But you're out for this over, and you can't come in again until this over is over and the next over begins."

Giving up, the American ambled off the field shaking his head, amidst raucous comments from the audience. Rita's voice, naturally, was the loudest. "Thought you Yanks could do everything!" she yelled, amidst giggles from her stalwart companions.

The next striker up, a short, skinny young man with a fierce, intent frown, appeared to hold the bat correctly, but at the last minute took a couple of steps forward and the ball glanced off his arm.

"LBW!" Carbunkle shouted gleefully.

"What the heck is that?" the young American demanded.

"Leg before wicket, sir. You're out."

"My legs have to be in front of the wicket or I can't hit the damn ball."

"No, sir, the ball hit you before you hit it, so it's leg before wicket."

"It didn't hit my leg, it hit my friggin' arm!"

"It doesn't have to hit your leg, laddie. It just has to hit anywhere on your body."

"Then why is it called leg before wicket?"

"Search me. It's in the laws, isn't it."

Another disgusted player walked off the field to be greeted by more catcalls.

And so it went on. Finally, after an hour and a half of bellowing, explaining, complaining, and jeering, the exhausted coaches had to acknowledge one thing. The Yanks didn't stand a hope in hell of winning the cricket match on Wednesday.

The next morning Elizabeth rode her motorcycle back through town and out on the coast road to visit Henrietta Jones. It was a pleasant ride, with just enough breeze to fan her face as she swooped down the hill and around the long curve.

She had securely fastened a plaid wool scarf around her head, and today she wore goggles to protect her eyes. Normally she rode without them, claiming she could see better without the restricting frames. Lately, however, the cold wind had caused her eyes to water quite profusely, thus impairing her vision more so than wearing the goggles.

Henrietta must have been seated in the window, since she answered Elizabeth's loud rapping of the door knocker. Elizabeth had to wonder how many visitors the elderly widow missed by failing to hear them at her door. Then again, by all accounts, Henrietta didn't have that many visitors.

The old lady seemed surprised to see her, but invited her in with a wide sweep of her arm. "So nice of you to call on me," she said in her gravelly voice, as Elizabeth followed her into the cottage. The living room smelled as if a dozen dogs lived in there. Obviously Charlie's care-giving didn't extend to housework.

"Can I get you some tea and crumpets?" Henrietta motioned to the threadbare settee, and Elizabeth lowered herself gingerly onto the sagging springs.

This time she'd armed herself with a small blackboard and chalk.
Thank you, no
, she wrote hastily, the vision
of the dogs still with her. She showed the blackboard to Henrietta, who adjusted her glasses and peered at the words, nodding her understanding.

After scrubbing out the letters with her eraser, Elizabeth wrote,
Just wanted to see how you were doing. Do you need a ride into town?
Now that Percy wouldn't be calling on her, the old lady would need someone else to take her shopping.

Henrietta shook her head. "No, thank you, Lady Elizabeth. As a matter of fact, I've been thinking about leaving Sitting Marsh and going back to London to live."

"Really!" Elizabeth regarded her with open curiosity, then wrote,
Aren't you worried about the bombing?

Henrietta shook her head, and a stray hair or two floated to the floor. "Not really. At my age one doesn't worry about things like that. I'll go when my number's up, no matter where I am. Just like everyone else."

Elizabeth shivered, unable to prevent the spasm of pain at the thought of her parents perishing in the lethal blast of a German bomb. Quickly she scribbled,
What does your grandson think about you going back to the city?

Henrietta shrugged. "Oh, he's happy about it. Save him coming down. Getting a bit tired of that, he was. Can't blame him, really. It's not much fun taking care of an old lady. This way I'll be a lot closer so he can keep an eye on me. Good boy, that, our Charlie."

Elizabeth nodded, her anxiety mounting. If Charlie was involved in Kenny's murder, then the poor old lady would have no one to take care of her in London. Whereas if she stayed in Sitting Marsh, she'd at least have a couple of people calling in on her now and again to make sure she was all right.

Intent now on finding out what she could about Charlie's whereabouts that night, she wrote,
How often does Charlie get down here? Every weekend?

"Oh, no, not every weekend, no." Henrietta awk
wardly pulled a cushion out from behind her, plumped it up, and stuffed it behind her back again. Elizabeth could tell from the way the old lady moved that her rheumatism was bothering her again. She felt an aching sympathy for the poor woman. It was so sad to see someone alone and in pain much of the time with only a wayward grandson to care about her.

So when was the last time he was down?
she persisted.
Last weekend? The weekend before?

Henrietta squinted her eyes as if she were trying to remember. "Not last weekend, for sure. And the weekend before that, he was in London at my cousin's funeral. So he didn't come down then, neither."

He spent the entire weekend at the funeral?

Henrietta peered at her as if wondering why she was being questioned so thoroughly.

Trying to look indifferent, Elizabeth wrote,
You surprised me. Funerals don't usually last all weekend
.

"They do if you're Irish Catholic," Henrietta said dryly. "You know the Irish. Any excuse to drink. The wake went on all day and night. Funeral was on Saturday and they didn't give up drinking and eating until Sunday night." She uttered what sounded very much like a snort. "Never seen anything like it in all my born days."

Elizabeth looked at her in surprise, then wrote,
You were there?

Henrietta tapped the arm of her chair with her thick fingers. "I was there, yes. Thanks to our Charlie. He came down on the Friday to get me, and brought me home on Monday. Took time off work to do that, he did. Like I said, good boy, that Charlie."

You were with him the entire weekend?

"Stayed right in his flat, I did. Gave me his own bed, while he slept on the sofa. Never left me side the whole weekend."

Elizabeth managed a weak smile and scribbled,
Nice of him. You must have enjoyed that
.

"I did." Henrietta nodded vigorously. "In fact, I enjoyed it so much, that's when I decided I might as well go back to London to stay."

So when do you plan on leaving?
Elizabeth glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It's loud tick was somewhat distracting. Not that Henrietta would be bothered by it, of course.

"Just as soon as Charlie can get down here and help me pack." Henrietta followed Elizabeth's glance. "Don't let me keep you, Lady Elizabeth. I'm sure you have better things to do than spend time gossiping with me."

Grateful for the cue, Elizabeth rose.
Let me know when you plan to leave
, she wrote on the slate.

Henrietta smiled. "You'll be the first to know, Lady Elizabeth. Other than Charlie, that is."

Elizabeth returned the smile and quickly left. Not that she felt like smiling. Yet another closed trail. How she hated all these dead ends. It wasn't just for Earl now, that she wanted to find out what happened. Or for Sam Cutter, or Polly.

She hated to admit defeat. Somewhere, somehow along the line she had the niggling feeling that she knew something important. Something that could possibly shed light on the mystery. She'd had that feeling before, the certainty that something crucial was floating in her mind just beyond reach. All she had to do was trap it and hold it down long enough to examine it.

No matter how intensely she tried, however, she couldn't think what it could be that she knew and didn't know she knew. It was too vague, too deep in her subconscious mind. She would simply have to wait and hope that it surfaced sometime soon. Because although she wasn't quite sure why, she felt a certain sense of urgency, as if time were running out. And that was the most unsettling notion of all.

The day of the cricket match dawned with a layer of heavy white clouds drifting across the pale blue sky. Watching them anxiously from time to time, Elizabeth was relieved to see the minute patches of blue gradually spread out, and by noon the skies had cleared and a warm sun prevailed upon the players assembled at the cricket field.

The American jeeps had pulled up on one side of the car park when she arrived and the British army lorries were lined up on the other. Inside the pavilion, Rita's housewives bustled around, preparing the tables for the big feast. The army captain in charge of the soldiers had volunteered to fetch the food from Bessie's bakery after the match, therefore eliminating the worry of keeping everything fresh all afternoon.

In spite of a distinct chill from a brisk ocean breeze, deck chairs filled with onlookers, mostly women, sat in front of the pavilion balcony with a full view of the field.

Although the players looked somewhat out of sorts dressed in army trousers and undershirts, the excitement and tension far surpassed the usual games of cricket that had been played there before the war.

Desmond had done a remarkable job of rolling and smoothing the pitch and defining the creases, and Elizabeth was looking forward to watching the match.

She barely had time to speak to Earl before the umpires called the first players in. Making up her mind to have a chat with him later, she settled down to enjoy the game.

It soon became quite apparent that the Americans were outmatched. The British soldiers piled up the runs, and it was fairly obvious to everyone there that they thoroughly enjoyed their triumph over their rivals.

Now and again a rather crude remark from the British soldiers drifted across the field, but for the most part the Americans either didn't understand the phrase or chose
to ignore it. All in all, considering the vast inequity in the skills of the players, the whole game was quite civilized.

When the victorious team finally walked off the field, the crowing over their opponents was quite good-natured, with the Americans promising a very different outcome with the return match of baseball.

Much to Elizabeth's delight, and Violet's disbelief, the feast also progressed without incident, no doubt because Rita and her housewives went out of their way to make a fuss of the British soldiers, leaving the Americans to the village girls, for which they were no doubt divinely grateful.

Elizabeth felt the entire event was a rousing success, and felt inordinately pleased with herself. Now, if only the baseball game turned out half as well, it could mean she had made great strides in her quest to unite the British and the Americans in Sitting Marsh.

CHAPTER

15

Later, while discussing the game over a glass of sherry in the conservatory, she congratulated Earl on the exemplary conduct of his team.

"They all behaved like perfect gentlemen," she told him, neglecting to confess she saw most of the Americans sneak out of the pavilion with a village girl in tow before the feast was over.

"They knew they were outclassed." Earl grinned at her. "Bad as the New York Yankees losing to the Cardinals in the World Series this year. Weird game, though. I don't think anyone on my team understood the rules."

"Don't let that bother you. Most of the British don't understand them, either." Elizabeth stretched her feet out in front of her. She sat in her usual spot on the wicker divan, while Earl rocked gently to and fro on the rocking chair.

"Actually," she added, when he didn't answer, "as a rule I find the game quite boring. I must admit, this afternoon's contest was quite invigorating for a change."

"I had a good time. Made a change from the touch football we play on the base."

She hated to put a dampener on the pleasant conversation, but she felt compelled to tell him what had transpired over the past couple of days. After relating her conversation with Percy, she told him how she'd suspected Henrietta's grandson of being Kenny's contact. "After talking to her, though, I'm convinced he wasn't involved. It was just coincidence that he brought supplies down for Henrietta at the same time Kenny was dealing with his own stolen goods."