Manor House 04 - Dig Deep for Murder (14 page)

Elizabeth stared at him in surprise. "Then you have reported it to the inspector?"

"Oh, yes, m'm. Have to do that right away, don't we? 'Course, that don't mean he's going to deal with it right away. Like he says, the body's already cold, so there's no hurry. Any clues that might have been left about, like footprints or stuff around the grave site, have been dug up or disturbed, haven't they? As for who did it, well, he's long gone by now. Right now the inspector's got another case he's working on, but he's got all the information on it, don't you worry about that."

"Have there been any further developments in the case? Other than what we already know?"

"Not to my knowledge, no." George reached for the newspaper again. "I reckon we'll just have to wait until the inspector gets around to investigating it, won't we?"

Elizabeth got up from her chair, and George rose slowly to his feet. "Do you have any ideas who might have done this, George?"

"I have lots of ideas who might have done it. That don't mean to say they did do it, though, do it?"

"You're quite right. One shouldn't jump to conclusions." She reached the door and looked back at him. "What about his wife? Do you think she's capable of beating her husband to death?"

George shrugged. "If you mean is she strong enough, I'd say it's possible. Can't say as to how her mind works, though. Not many ladies have the stomach to kill."

"I suppose it all depends on how much one has to gain."

"That would be the question, m'm. No doubt of it."

"Well, thank you, George." Elizabeth left him standing there, and ran down the steps to where she'd left her motorcycle. One more stop before she went home. She needed the afternoon to rest. Tonight she would be attending the cocktail party at the American air base, and she was determined to look her very best. It would not be easy to be with Earl and pretend indifference to his presence, but it would be worth it for the chance to spend the evening with him in his own environment.

She was looking forward to it immensely, and the prospect finally banished her depression and raised her spirits as she tootled through the village to Betty Stewart's house.

As she approached the cottage, she saw an ancient, rusty bicycle with a slightly buckled wheel leaning against the fence. She recognized it instantly. Cyril Appleby, Sitting Marsh's affable postman, used it to make his deliveries. Elizabeth often wondered how much longer the
aging postman would cling to his wobbly steed before accepting the brand-new bicycle the local postmaster had offered him.

Cyril stoutly maintained that his bicycle had been good enough to carry him around the village for more than thirty years, and he wasn't about to abandon it now for one of those "modern jobbies."

Elizabeth smiled as she spotted Cyril ambling down the Stewarts' garden path with his heavy postbag over his shoulder. Closeted by her parents in the vast wasteland of the Manor House as a child, she had considered watching Cyril weave up the curving driveway one of the highlights of her day.

She waved to him, then climbed off her motorcycle and carefully straightened her skirt.

"If you've come to pay a call on Mrs. Stewart, your ladyship, she ain't home," Cyril informed her, jerking a thumb past his ear. "Probably out shopping. They usually are this time of day."

"Ah, well, it can wait. Thank you, Cyril."

She was about to climb aboard her motorcycle again when Cyril said mournfully, "Awful, that, about Reggie. Wonder who's going to deliver the coal now?"

"I imagine they'll find someone before the winter comes." Elizabeth straightened her hat, which, in spite of its anchors of pins and a silk scarf, had slipped over her ear. "Did you know Mr. Stewart well? I was under the impression he didn't have many friends."

"I don't know as you could call us friends, your ladyship. More like acquaintances, I'd say. We went to work on the bus together every morning. I have to say, it was a shock to hear about him being dead and buried like that. Nasty business. Do they know who did it?"

"Not as far as I know. When was the last time you saw Mr. Stewart?"

Cyril scratched his head. "It was a week ago last Friday. We sat next to each other on the bus. I looked for him on the Monday morning, and he wasn't there. A few days
later I heard about him being found buried in your Victory Gardens. Must have been a shock for you."

"It was, indeed." Elizabeth grasped the handlebars of her motorcycle and prepared to swing her leg as elegantly as possible over the saddle.

"Well, at least the poor bugger won't have to go and fight for his country. I just dropped off his Army papers. Too bad he didn't think of doing that sooner, or he might still be alive."

Elizabeth lowered her leg again. "Mr. Stewart was called up into the Army?"

Cyril nodded. "Must have volunteered. He kept talking about doing it, but I never thought he would. Didn't seem like the type of person who would willingly risk his life for his country. Just goes to show you never know."

"Indeed you don't," Elizabeth agreed.

"Well, what do you know! There's Betty Stewart coming down the road. Must have just got off the bus." His words were nearly drowned out by the roar of the bus rumbling by in a cloud of smelly smoke. "Reckon I'll be off now," he said, as the noise of the engine faded into the distance. He tipped his hat at Elizabeth and mounted his bicycle.

She watched him wobble off and wave to Betty Stewart as he passed her. Loaded down with two heavy shopping bags, she managed to return his wave, but her attention was fixed on Elizabeth. A frown marred her face as she approached. She responded to Elizabeth's cheery greeting in a surly tone that clearly indicated her reluctance to speak. "Were you waiting for me, Lady Elizabeth?"

"Not exactly." Elizabeth gave her a friendly smile. "I was passing by and stopped to speak to Cyril. But since you're here now, I was wondering if you'd heard anything about the things that were stolen from your house."

Betty sighed and set her shopping bags on the ground. "Not a word." She flexed her arms, as if easing tired muscles. "Nor do I expect to hear anything. Whoever took them has got rid of them by now, I shouldn't wonder."

"Well, you'd certainly recognize the photo frame if you saw it again. Maybe you should look in the pawnshop in North Horsham. I understand the photograph meant a great deal to your husband. You must be anxious to get it back."

Betty Stewart shrugged. "What's gone is gone, that's what I say." She glanced up the path at her front door. "I'd ask you in, your ladyship, but I'm really not prepared for visitors at this moment."

"That's quite all right. I was just off myself." Elizabeth grasped the handlebars of her motorcycle again. "Oh, Cyril happened to mention that he'd delivered some Army papers for Mr. Stewart. I thought I should prepare you. In view of your husband's death, receiving something like that must come as an unpleasant surprise."

Betty's face was blank when she answered. "Thank you, your ladyship. I appreciate that."

"It appears that your husband did volunteer for the Army, after all."

"That's what he said he was going to do when he left the house. 'Course, he'd been saying it for weeks. Said it so many times I didn't believe him."

"And you didn't see him again after he left the house that day?"

Betty's chin came up, and her eyes blazed with sudden fire. "I didn't kill him, Lady Elizabeth, if that's what you're asking. I know what everyone in the village is thinking. Even Henry thought so at first. I—" She broke off, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

"I've talked to Henry." Elizabeth straightened. "He said he didn't help you bury your husband. A rather unfortunate choice of words, under the circumstances."

Resentment burned in Betty's face. "Lady Elizabeth, Henry and I might have fancied each other, but it was all innocent. Henry isn't the kind of person who would mess around with another man's wife. Reggie and I didn't get along—everyone knows that—but I didn't kill him. I'd swear to that on the Bible. I was brought up strict Cath
olic. I couldn't divorce Reggie. I certainly wouldn't have killed him. As for Henry, he wouldn't hurt a fly. And he knows I didn't kill Reggie now. He swears he does. Whatever he said to you must have just come out wrong, that's all."

There was a ring of truth in her voice that Elizabeth found difficult to ignore. "That's entirely possible," she said slowly.

"What's more," Betty said with defiance, "if it comes right down to it, I can prove I didn't kill my husband."

Elizabeth stared at her. "Really? How?"

Betty looked as if she'd like to cut out her tongue. "It's nothing, m'm. I'd rather not say at this time."

"Whatever it is, it might be of some help to the constables in their investigation."

"No, it's not going to help nobody." She picked up her bags again. "If you'll excuse me, m'm, I should get my shopping in the house."

Frustrated, Elizabeth had to let it go. She watched Betty trudge up the path to her front door before straddling the saddle of her motorcycle. Her mind raced with possibilities while she rode back through the town. Was Betty with Henry in North Horsham that Saturday night? Was that the proof she was talking about? If so, then she certainly wouldn't want to talk about it. But if that were so, why would Henry have thought Betty might have killed her husband?

Then again, it was by no means certain exactly when Reggie Stewart had died. All anyone knew was that he'd last been seen on that Saturday night, and no one had seen him after that.

Maybe, Elizabeth thought, as she roared up the hill to the manor, it would be a good idea if she rang the doctor and asked for his opinion on how long Reggie had been dead when he was discovered. Not that it would tell her that much more.

There just didn't seem to be any way to find out exactly what happened after Fred Bickham and Reggie Stewart
left the pub together. Which reminded her of something else she had to do. Somehow she had to persuade Scotland Yard to track down Fred Bickham for her. It seemed unlikely, after what Alfie had told her, that Fred had gone to Ireland. The question was, where had he gone, and how much chance did she have of getting the money he owed her?

By the time she arrived home, her head was buzzing so hard with her chaotic thoughts that she decided the best thing to do was sleep on it all. Nothing was to be gained by worrying too much about it now. Perhaps, if she gave her brain a rest, she'd be able to tie up everything she knew and make some sense of it.

She couldn't help thinking that in the tangle of information she had, there was a common thread winding through it, and if she could find that thread and give it a tug, everything would fall into place.

Right now, however, her head ached with the effort of sorting everything out. She had the afternoon to rest and regain her energy before the cocktail party that evening. And that's exactly what she was going to do.

"I want to see him before I leave, and I'm not going home until they let me in there." Polly stood by the side of her hospital bed with her arms crossed and glared at her mother. "I don't care if you do have a taxi waiting."

"Do you know how much it's costing me to have a taxi waiting outside?" Edna glared at her daughter. "What's so important you have to see this man right now? Why can't it wait until you're better and you can come back on the bus to see him?"

"The nurse told me he might not get better. I have to see him." Unable to bear the thought, Polly felt her eyes brim with tears.

"I don't know why you're making such a fuss, that I don't. The man nearly killed you."

"It wasn't his fault. The man on the bicycle was in the middle of the road."

"Well, thank God your Yank had the presence of mind to miss him. Still, he almost killed you in the process."

Polly started crying in earnest. "He might
die
, Ma . . . I've
got
to see him. I can't go home without seeing him. I just can't."

Edna stared at her daughter, then let out her breath in an explosive sigh. "Oh, very well. But make it snappy. That taxi is costing me good money."

"Thanks, Ma!" Polly rushed to the door, then halted as the room started spinning again.

"Take it easy, my girl. The doctor said to move slowly. You should be in a wheelchair, that's what I think."

Polly shook her head to clear it. "I'll be fine, Ma. Wait for me in the taxi. I'll only be a minute, I promise."

"You'd better be. Think I'm made of money, you do."

Polly left her mother to gather up her things and walked as quickly as she dared down the corridor to the lift. A few minutes later she was at the nurses' desk on the next floor. "I came to see Squadron Leader Cutter," she said, when the nurse looked up. "I'm Polly Barnett, the one who was with him in the accident. I'm leaving the hospital now, but I wanted to see him before I left." She put her whole heart into her eyes. "Please?"

"Well, I'm not supposed to—"

"Oh, please. I won't be a minute, I promise."

"He's still unconscious. He won't know you're there."

"He'll know." Polly held up a finger. "Just one minute?"

The nurse looked up and down the corridor. "Well, all right. But make it quick. If the sister catches you—"

"She won't catch me." Polly beamed her thanks. "I'll be right back." She hurried to the door the nurse had indicated and quietly opened it.

The still figure on the bed didn't move as she crept closer. His entire face was hidden behind bandages, with just a space for his nose and mouth. He was so motionless that for a dreadful moment she thought he was dead.
Then, with a rush of relief, she saw the slight rise and fall of his chest beneath the white covers.

She covered his cold hand with hers, and gently squeezed it. "It's me, Polly," she whispered. "I just wanted you to know I'm all right. I'm going home today. But I'll be back as soon as I can, so you'd better hurry up and wake up so we can talk when I come back. There's lots we need to talk about."

Her throat hurt, and she swallowed. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you how old I was when we met, Sam. I know I should have done, but I knew you were older than me, and you were sitting there in that jeep looking so handsome, and I knew lots of girls would be after you, and if I told you how old I was, you wouldn't have gone out with me. I was going to tell you, honest I was. But it's going to be all right, Sam, really it is. I'm sixteen now, and that's grown up, and I'll be seventeen in another few months, so it's going to be all right. . . ."