Manor House 03 - For Whom Death Tolls (22 page)

He put the glass down on the table between them. "Are you telling me you're worried about your reputation?"

She snapped her chin up. "Actually, I was more concerned about yours."

To her immense relief, he grinned. "Well, that's quite a switch."

She smiled happily at him. "Yes, isn't it. Usually I'm the one worrying about appearances."

"Does this mean you've stopped worrying?"

"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say that."

"I still have to call you Lady Elizabeth in public?"

"I'm afraid so."

He nodded. "That's what I thought."

"It's tradition, you know. People don't have much else to hang on to right now. They find it comforting to know that some things haven't changed."

He laced his fingers together and tucked them under his chin. "British people are sure interesting. Your history goes way, way back before ours, and all that time everyone has been fighting to the death to keep things the way they've always been."

"We're a proud nation. We are proud of what we've achieved and we don't want anyone or anything interfering in our way of life."

"I figured that. On the other hand, there's my country, still pretty much in its infancy compared to yours, and ever since America was born, everyone over there has been fighting to change things. Make it better, make it bigger, make it different."

"Ah, but then you Americans have never learned the art of contentment."

"I guess we associate contentment with a danger of becoming stagnant."

"That's the difference between us, I suppose." She sipped her sherry, enjoying the tangy fire of it sliding down her throat. After a moment she added, "It will always be there, won't it?"

"What will?"

"The difference between us."

"I guess so. America is made up of pioneers, adventurers, and rebels. We're a rough bunch compared to the genteel folks of Old England."

It was on the tip of her tongue to comment that it was
that very aura of raw energy that made Americans so exciting, but thought better of it.

"Anyway," Earl said, mercifully changing the subject, "what was it you wanted to tell me? Or was that just an excuse to enjoy some more of my scintillating company?"

She laughed, delighting in the ease with which she could indulge in this pleasant banter with him. "Probably a little of both, I must confess. I do, however, have some rather important news to tell you. You see, I found the missing supplies from the base."

Caught in the middle of a sip, he almost choked. He put down his glass and pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket with which he dabbed his mouth before exclaiming, in a rather melodramatic manner, Elizabeth thought, "You what?"

"I found the missing supplies."

"When? Where? How?"

Elizabeth sighed. "They are stacked in the basement at St. Matthew's."

"
The church
?"

"Yes. I found them there this afternoon."

"The minister is hiding stolen goods?"

"No, no. The reverend had no idea they were there. He hasn't been down there in more than five years. He had an awful job getting the door to open, since it had rusted shut, but—"

"Wait a minute. If he didn't put the stuff there, how did it get there?"

"Well, we assume it got there through the window. It's at ground level, and it would have been quite simple to hand the crates through there. They're not that large, after all. Though quite heavy, I suppose."

Earl appeared dazed by this revelation. "So, do you know who did put them there? Besides Kenny, I mean."

"Well, I think I do. But I'm going to need your help to prove it."

She quickly outlined her plan, impressing upon Earl the need to act quickly. "Once they move the supplies, it would be very difficult to prove anything."

"So we wait in the basement for them to turn up tomorrow night."

"And catch them red-handed, so to speak."

"But that still doesn't tell us who killed Kenny Morris."

"Well, it just might. I have to talk to Henrietta Jones one more time. I'll pop along there first thing in the morning."

"You really think she's involved in this?"

"Well, I do know that Henrietta isn't all she seems. I think she could be covering up for Charlie, after all. I have a theory about the rest of it, but I won't know until I talk to her again."

Earl shook his head. "I don't know. I don't like the thought of you going back there. If Charlie was Kenny's contact, he'll be in the village to pick up the stuff tomorrow. He could be at the cottage right now."

"I don't think so." Elizabeth stretched out her feet and wriggled her toes. "I didn't see any sign of a car in the lane, or any tire tracks. Which makes me think that Charlie will come down tomorrow to pick up the goods. He's going to need something bigger than a car to take all those boxes out of there, and there aren't that many places to hide a lorry. No, I think he'll wait until the middle of the night to drive into Sitting Marsh. By then your men will be waiting for him, and whomever else he brings to help him."

"You're that sure he'll turn up? If he turns out to be Kenny's killer, I can't figure why he'd risk coming back to the village."

"He has to come back." Elizabeth smiled. "He has a loose end to tie up."

"Which is?"

"Henrietta Jones. He has to come back for her. Even
if he has no real affection for her, he can't afford to leave a witness behind—a frail old lady who might just get upset enough with him to tell the police what she knows. I'm hoping he'll be greedy enough to take the last of the supplies with him."

"Well, I hope you're right." Earl still looked worried. "How do you figure on finding out if he's the killer?"

"I'm hoping Henrietta will tell me."

"Why would she do that?"

"Because," Elizabeth said slowly, "as I said, she's an old lady, and rather defenseless. I'm hoping I can shake her up enough for her to tell me the whole truth. I think she trusts me."

"That's an awful lot of hoping and surmising going on there."

Elizabeth shrugged. "It's all we have."

"You know the investigators might not go for it."

"Then I suppose we'll have to get George and Sid down there."

"Not a lot of brain power in those two."

"It's better than nothing."

Earl threw his hands up in defeat. "Okay, I'll talk to the investigators and get back to you tomorrow."

Elizabeth could tell he wasn't happy with her theories. She had to admit, they rested on a pretty weak foundation. "Thank you, Earl. I know a lot of what I've said is going on assumption, but I have a hunch about this and I just have to play it out."

"I still don't like the idea of you going over to that widow's place tomorrow."

"I'll be perfectly all right." She watched him rise, then got to her feet with some reluctance. How she hated to end these pleasant interludes. "I'll go down there right after breakfast, and then I'll be back around eleven. So you can call me any time after that."

"Okay, if you say so. Good night, Elizabeth."

"Good night, Earl. And thank you."

"Sure. I just hope I'm not gonna regret this."

She watched him leave, anxious now for the night to be over. She couldn't wait to get back to Henrietta's cottage and confirm what she suspected.

CHAPTER

17

The rain had returned the next morning when Elizabeth left the house. In spite of her goggles, which covered a large portion of her face, and the bright yellow waterproof fisherman's hat she'd dug out of an old chest, somehow the raindrops found their way down her neck to soak the collar of her blouse.

The mackintosh she wore parted enough for the rain to drench her skirt, and she was quite a sorry sight by the time she arrived at Henrietta's cottage.

Marching up the path, her feet squelching inside her wet boots, she made a mental note to shop for a good set of oilskins to wear on her motorcycle during the winter months. This was one of the rare times she wished she could afford a motorcar.

She glanced at the front window, but could see no sign of Henrietta behind the bedraggled window boxes.
The widow had to be in the back of the house in the kitchen.

Elizabeth paused for a second or two, then lifted the knocker and let it fall. After a moment of silence had passed, she rapped again, this time putting some force behind the metal knocker. The wind whistled and moaned around the house, slapping wet leaves against the porch walls and raising goose bumps on Elizabeth's arms.

She waited, her patience slipping away with each passing moment. Again she rapped, louder and louder, more and more insistent. When she still received no answer to her summons, she stepped down from the porch into the teeth of the wind.

Leaning into the fierce blast, she walked back down the path to the lane and studied the ground. Still no tire tracks. The mud stirred up by the rain would certainly have left tracks if anything heavier than a bicycle had parked there. Charlie couldn't have arrived already, unless Henrietta left by foot to meet him somewhere.

Anxious now that all her plans were doomed for failure, Elizabeth pushed her way between two very wet, very prickly bushes to get up close to the window. The living room was dark, and it was difficult to see. The room appeared to be empty. She pushed hard on the window, but it was securely latched.

Frustrated, she went back to the front door and rammed the knocker down as hard as it would go. The door flew open, taking her completely off guard.

Henrietta stood with one hand on the doorjamb and stared hard at her. She appeared to be extremely put out. Her gravelly voice could barely mask her irritation. "Lady Elizabeth, what the . . . what on earth are you doing out here in this dreadful weather?"

"Oh, thank goodness." Without waiting for an invitation, Elizabeth stepped through the door, into the unpleasant odor of the living room. "I was afraid
something awful had happened to you." She vaguely heard the door closing behind her, but her attention was immediately caught by the three suitcases sitting in the middle of the living room.

"Such a terrible day to be out, and you on a motorcycle. It must be important to bring you out on such a day." Henrietta walked past her heading toward the kitchen. "You'll have to excuse me, Lady Elizabeth. I was cleaning out my cupboards. Everything is in a bit of a mess, I'm afraid. I hope you will excuse me if I don't have time to talk."

"Henrietta . . . " Elizabeth darted forward and grasped the old woman by the arm. To her intense surprise, she distinctly felt a hard muscle contract under her fingers.

Cold with shock, she let go at once.

Henrietta turned to look at her, and Elizabeth instinctively backed away.

"I just wanted to ask if there was anything I could get for you from town today," she said quickly. "I had to pass by here and thought you might need something."

The widow studied her with eyes that had grown hard and cold. "I really am very busy, Lady Elizabeth, as I'm sure you must be. Please don't let me keep you."

Elizabeth backed up another step. "Very well. Perhaps another day. Please don't bother to see me out. I'll be quite all right."

With a curt nod, Henrietta spun around and disappeared into the kitchen.

Elizabeth stared after her. She had to know for sure. It could have been her imagination. On the other hand, if she was right, Henrietta could be in terrible danger.

Raising her voice only slightly, she said, "I see Charlie has arrived. When did he get here?"

The rough voice answered her from the kitchen. "Charlie's not here. He—" The words broke off, followed by an ominous silence.

Elizabeth silently congratulated herself. As she'd sus
pected, whoever that was in the kitchen, she wasn't deaf, and she wasn't Henrietta. Fascinated in spite of her mounting apprehension, Elizabeth waited for the old woman.

When she finally moved into the doorway, she didn't speak. She just stood there in the entrance to the kitchen, poised like a cat watching a bird, just waiting for her prey to make a move.

Too late, Elizabeth realized she'd made a mistake. She forced her frozen mind to work. The front door was still several feet behind her. If she could make it to the porch, she might have a chance. The thing to do was keep talking until she could ease close enough to make a dash for it. "You seemed to have recovered your hearing," she said, using much the same tone of voice with which she'd discuss the weather.

She wasn't terribly surprised when the old woman lifted her hand and pulled the gray wig from her head. The lank blond hair, sheared in a military cut, seemed incongruous above the face that had been powdered almost white and carefully painted with lines to resemble wrinkles.

"Charlie, I assume?" Elizabeth said, sliding her foot backward.

"Now how in the hell did you manage to work that one out, your ladyship?"

Charlie's voice was rich with sarcasm, and Elizabeth felt an intense flash of resentment. She raised her chin. "What have you done with your grandmother?

He uttered a scornful laugh. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "There ain't no bloody grandma, is there. Not so bloody clever after all, are you, your bleeding ladyship."

"I don't understand." Elizabeth drew her right foot level with her left. "Isn't Henrietta your grandmother? Then who is she? Whoever she is, I know she isn't really deaf." Very slowly, she slid her left foot behind her again.

"What makes you think she ain't, then?"

"The first day I came here, Henrietta said she was in the kitchen making some tea. I heard the kettle stop whistling as she took it off the stove, just before I knocked. Yet she answered the door almost immediately. She couldn't have seen me arrive if she was in the kitchen, so she must have heard me."

Charlie bared uneven teeth in a ghastly grin. "Got it all worked out then, have you?"

Elizabeth eased her foot backward again. "Well, I assume, if she's not your grandmother, then she must be your accomplice. I thought she was covering up for you because you were her only relative, but you were paying her to help you, weren't you. You stayed with her here in the cottage, and pretended to be her when you went out so that you could go anywhere in town without anyone knowing you were there. Everyone naturally thought you were Henrietta."