Manor House 03 - For Whom Death Tolls (5 page)

"Name it, Major."

"That we hold a return match. We'll play cricket with your guys, if they'll play baseball with ours."

She caught her breath. "What a splendid idea! Done." She held out her hand, and caught her breath when Earl folded his strong fingers around hers. To cover her confusion, she quickly withdrew her hand and said somewhat unsteadily, "I'm having the chimneys swept this week. Then we'll be able to light the fires again. Your men must be feeling the chill now that the evenings are drawing in."

"No one's complaining." His eyes wrinkled at the corners when he smiled at her. "I don't want you to go to any trouble on our behalf."

"No trouble at all. We have the chimneys cleaned every year. They get very sooty, you know."

"Does everyone heat their homes with coal fires?"

"Most everyone. Some of the bigger houses in London have heating systems, but here in the country we all have to rely on a coal fire." She glanced at him, feeling somewhat defensive. "Don't they have coal fires in America?"

"I guess so, though a lot of folks use wood-burning stoves. Most people I know have central heating."

"You have heating in your house?"

"Yes, ma'am. Oil furnace. Heats the whole house."

She sighed at the thought of such luxury. "How wonderful. I wonder if we shall ever be as modern as America. From what I've heard, England is a full century behind."

Earl laughed. "Not that bad, is it?"

"You tell me. After all, you've experienced both sides of the Atlantic."

"It's hardly a fair comparison. Things are bound to be more difficult in wartime."

"Maybe, but you have to admit, America is far ahead of us when it comes to technology in the home. Look at the motorcar, for instance. Doesn't everyone drive one over there?"

Earl shrugged. "It's a lot tougher to get around in the
States. It's more spread out. No buses or trains to take us everywhere we want to go like you have here. Sometimes you can drive for hours and not see a single house. I can't imagine doing that here."

Elizabeth gazed at him, filled with an aching, restless longing she didn't fully understand. "Oh, how I'd love to see it all."

He grinned at her. "Maybe one day you will, when the war is over."

Her despondency worried her. Normally she didn't let things get her down. One lived for the hour these days, and didn't give much thought to the next. There were times, however, when she wondered if the war would ever end. She'd almost forgotten what it was like to live without rationing and shortages in a village deprived of its able-bodied men.

One day, she supposed, things would get back to normal. Whatever normal would be by then. Certainly things would never go back to the way they were. Maybe that was a good thing. What saddened her most of all was the thought that once the war was over, Major Earl Monroe of the United States Army Air Force would return to his wife and family in America. And that thought depressed her in a way that was highly inappropriate.

CHAPTER

4

Elizabeth wasted no time the following morning. After another of Violet's surprisingly abundant breakfasts, she took the puppies for a frolic on the lawn, then loaded a basket of provisions into the sidecar of her motorcycle. After informing Violet that she was paying a visit to Henrietta Jones, she rode her motorcycle into town.

The skies were clear that morning, though the sea mist planted droplets on the wisps of hair that escaped from the warm scarf she'd wound around her head. Normally she would rejoice in the tepid warmth of the autumn sun. These days, however, a clear sky meant that a bombing mission over Europe was a certainty. Even as the thought surfaced, she heard the drone of engines overhead.

Looking up, she saw a formation of bombers flying steadily toward the ocean with their Hurricane escorts. The feeling of dread that was never very far from her
mind almost numbed her. She whispered a quiet prayer before swooping down the hill toward St. Matthew's churchyard.

The gray stone walls of the ancient church towered above her in silent disapproval as she parked her motorcycle on the grass verge. Her footsteps crunched up the gravel driveway, disturbing the quiet peace of the cemetery. She'd intended to take a look in the bell tower before talking to the vicar, but to her dismay a grim-faced man in the uniform of the American military police barred her way at the door.

"Sorry, ma'am," he announced crisply. "These premises are off limits until further notice."

"Oh, that's all right, Captain." Elizabeth smiled sweetly. "Major Earl Monroe asked me to look around."

"It's corporal, ma'am, and I have orders to let no one pass."

"Well, I can see your predicament, Captain—"

"Corporal, ma'am."

"Ah, yes, Corporal." Elizabeth did her best to look regal. "Anyway, since you apparently do not recognize me, I shall introduce myself. I'm Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton. Lady of the manor, estate owner, and chief administrator of the village of Sitting Marsh. As such, I have a certain authority—"

"Not when it comes to the business of the United States Army Air Force, you don't. Ma'am."

Elizabeth felt just a teensy bit irritated. "I would say that a dead body hanging from the bell rope in St. Matthews's bell tower is very definitely my business, since the incident happened in my village, so to speak."

The corporal continued to look unimpressed, much to Elizabeth's annoyance. "Ma'am, unless you're a member of the British police force, you're not coming in. Ma'am."

"But you can't refuse the lady of the manor—"

A muscle twitched in his cheek—the only movement
in his otherwise rigid face. "Ma'am, I wouldn't let you pass if you were the king of England."

"Well!" It was amazing how much exasperation one could put into that one word, Elizabeth thought, with a murderous glare. "Obviously you have no idea whom you are addressing. I shall simply have to talk to your superiors and inform them of your complete lack of cooperation and respect."

If the corporal was disturbed by her idle threat, he showed no sign. "Yes, ma'am."

Elizabeth did not like to be defeated. But then neither did she care to waste her breath on an argument she'd already lost. Turning her back on the infuriating man, she marched around the side of the bell tower and headed for the vicarage.

The Reverend Roland Cumberland was in the tiny front yard of his parochial home, snipping dead twigs off a rather sad-looking rosebush. "Not a good year for roses," he informed Elizabeth, after greeting her in a somewhat perfunctory manner.

Sensing he had something heavy on his mind, she chose her words carefully. "I see you have a visitor stationed at the bell tower."

The vicar nodded glumly. "Pesky American military police. Won't even let me go in there. How am I supposed to ring the bells for the evening service if I can't go into the bell tower? Last night I had only a handful of parishioners in the pews. Disgrace, that's what I call it."

Fully aware that on any given weeknight there were never more than a few dedicated worshipers in the church, Elizabeth did her best to look sympathetic. "It is a nuisance, I agree. Let's hope they soon finish whatever they are doing in there and leave us in peace."

The vicar raised his face to the sky. "Amen to that."

"I was wondering, Vicar. The night of the murder, you were at home, I presume?"

He dropped his chin, his eyes wary behind the thick lenses. "Yes, yes, of course. Asleep in my bed, naturally."

"Then you were not aware of anything unusual around the churchyard that night? You didn't hear anything? Anything at all? No footsteps, voices, creaking gates?"

The vicar pursed his lips. "Nothing. I'm fortunate to be blessed with the deep slumber of the righteous. Nothing disturbs me until morning. Unless I hear the bells ringing, of course." He looked a little uncomfortable. "Actually, it was Deirdre who heard them. She had to give me a little nudge. But I'm quite sure I would have awoken if she'd just given me a little longer."

"I'm sure you would have, Vicar." Elizabeth glanced at the reverend's quaint little house. "Is Deirdre at home, by any chance?"

The vicar frowned in concentration, then declared, "Gardening club. Then she'll be visiting hospital patients in North Horsham. You might catch her in Bessie's bakeshop around eleven or so. Though if you want to know if she heard anything, I can tell you now. She didn't. She would have told me. Deirdre never misses a thing, and never misses an opportunity to tell me about it. If she'd heard something unusual that night, she would have dragged me out of bed to investigate."

Elizabeth smiled at the vision of the sedate Deirdre Cumberland dragging her husband from his bed and shoving him outside in his pajamas. "Well, I won't keep you now, Vicar. But if you should remember anything, you will let me know, won't you?"

"Of course, Lady Elizabeth. But as I've told those American officers, I have no idea who might have done this terrible thing. If I had, I'd certainly want to see him face the consequences of such a dreadful deed. Taking the life of another is a deadly sin."

"It is indeed, Vicar. I think I'll just take a quick peek
around the churchyard before I leave. You never know what I might find."

The vicar gave her a shrewd look. "I think the American investigators have already confiscated anything that might be of interest. I appreciate your concern, Lady Elizabeth, but I must caution you about the dangers of participating in this nasty business."

Elizabeth waved an airy hand in dismissal. "Don't worry, Vicar. I know what I'm doing, and I promise I won't get in the way of that rude American in the bell tower."

She left the vicar snipping his rosebushes, and trod around the perimeter of the church and the grounds. After satisfying herself that there was nothing out of the ordinary to be found, she returned to her motorcycle and lifted the hem of her skirt to ease a leg over the seat.

It was a maneuver that had taken months of practice to manage gracefully, and even now, every time she climbed aboard, she shuddered to think what her mother would say if she knew that the sole heir to the Wellsborough estate was cavorting around the town perched on the seat of a motorcycle and sidecar.

The truth was, of course, that she could not afford a motorcar, and even if she could, she didn't know how to drive, which would mean hiring a chauffeur, since Violet had never been behind the wheel of anything mechanical, and half the time Martin wasn't even aware there was such a thing as a motorcar, much less how to drive one.

She arrived a short time later at the gate of Henrietta's cottage. Henrietta had leased the cottage at least a month ago, and Elizabeth was feeling rather guilty about not having visited the elderly lady before this. According to Violet, the widow had no family except for a grandson who lived in London.

As she marched up the pathway to the weather-beaten door, Elizabeth promised herself that she would remem
ber to drop by more often to keep an eye on her newest tenant.

As she stepped up onto the tiny porch, she heard the shrill whistle of a teakettle. A moment later the sound was abruptly cut off, and Elizabeth smiled. It seemed as if she'd arrived at just the right time to enjoy a cup of tea. She lifted the brass lion's head that served as a door knocker and let it fall with a soft thud.

The door opened almost immediately, and a white-haired lady wrapped in a thick red shawl peered through a pair of metal frame glasses, with a worried look on her wrinkled face.

Elizabeth hurried to reassure her. "Mrs. Jones? I'm Lady Elizabeth from the Manor House. I brought you a few bits and pieces I thought you might find useful." She held out the basket to the old lady, who hesitated before she reached to take it.

Elizabeth saw her wince and said quickly, "Oh, I'm sorry, perhaps I should carry it in for you."

She flung out her hands but Henrietta hung on to the basket, answering in a low, husky voice that sounded like the effects of a bad cold. "It's very kind of you, I'm sure. I'm having a bit of trouble with my rheumatism right now. I get it in my elbows now and then. I was just in the kitchen, making a cup of tea. Would you care to join me?"

She turned and carried the basket across the tiny living room and through the door that led to the kitchen. Elizabeth stepped into the house and closed the front door behind her.

It had been some time since she had been inside the cottage. The last tenant had died and the house had been empty for months until the estate agent in North Horsham had informed Elizabeth that he'd leased it again.

Studying the faded wallpaper with a critical eye, she wondered if anyone had inspected the premises before Henrietta Jones moved in. That was the trouble with
having to use an agent in North Horsham. He was too far away for constant supervision, and she knew from experience how lax the agents could be.

"You must let me know, Mrs. Jones," she called out, "if you have any repairs that need doing. As your landlord I'm responsible for the upkeep of the cottages." Which the rent hardly covers, she thought ruefully.

Henrietta didn't answer, but went on rattling cups in the kitchen.

Elizabeth went to the door and peered in. The old lady was carefully placing biscuits on a plate and seemed unaware that her visitor was right behind her. Deciding that the rheumatism wasn't preventing her hostess from managing the refreshments, Elizabeth returned to the living room and seated herself on a shabby settee in front of the fireplace.

A moment or two later Henrietta emerged from the kitchen awkwardly balancing a tray, which she set down on a footstool near Elizabeth's feet. The effort must have caused her pain after all, since she winced again.

"Oh, do let me pour," Elizabeth offered quickly, but Henrietta ignored her, and lifted the jug of milk to pour a small amount into the china cups.

Felling somewhat slighted, Elizabeth took the steaming cup and saucer from the old lady's shaking hand. "Thank you so much. How are you enjoying our little village? It must seem so quiet after living in London, though I suppose nowadays that's a good thing."