Manor House 01 - A Bicycle Built for Murder (11 page)

"What in heaven's name are you cooking up in that mind of yours?" Violet demanded, startling Elizabeth out of her thoughts. "You've got a furrow deep enough in your forehead to grow potatoes."

"I was just thinking about our preparations to house the Americans." She avoided Violet's sharp eyes. "All those portraits in the great hall will have to be dusted, the chimneys in the east wing will have to be swept. . . . There's so much to be done."

"I suppose we should do something about the plumbing over there, too." Violet opened a cupboard and took down a tin of porridge. "The way that water rattles in those pipes you'd think it was Old Marlowe coming after Scrooge with his Christmas ghosts."

"It's not the water that rattles, it's the air in the pipes."

"Whatever it is, if we don't get it seen to, them Yanks will think this house is haunted."

Elizabeth watched her measure the oatmeal into a pan. "Those men risk their lives to fly their planes into enemy fire every single day," she observed quietly. "I really don't think a few rattles in the pipes are going to disturb them. Besides, we can't afford it."

"We can't afford no chimney sweeps, neither. That's if we could find one, and I doubt that. Anyone young enough and healthy enough to climb over these roofs has been called up by now."

"Then we shall have to clean them ourselves."

Violet spun around to face her. "Have you forgotten what happened when you decided we should mend the drainpipe ourselves? Maybe that bump you got on your head wiped it out of your mind."

"I fell off the ladder because the ground was soft from the rain."

"Exactly. And what happened when you insisted on
painting the ceiling in the library yourself?"

"I never did like that chandelier much." Elizabeth smiled. "Come now, Violet, admit it. You enjoy the challenge just as much as I do."

"I like living in one piece, too. Hanging from a chandelier with one hand is not my idea of fun."

"I forgot the library ladder has wheels on it."

"You'll break your neck one of these days, Lizzie. You mark my words. The master would turn in his grave if he knew half of what you're up to around here."

"You fuss over nothing, Violet. Besides, it isn't cold enough to worry about lighting fires yet. We still have time to decide what to do about the chimneys." Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. "Can I smell burning?"

Violet gave a yelp and made a grab for the pot. "Look at that now. Caught it on the bottom."

"That's all right. I like it burned."

"Just as well, because that's the way you've got it this morning."

Elizabeth laughed. "I don't think either Daddy or Mother would worry, knowing you are here to take care of me."

"You need someone to take care of you, and that's a fact," Violet muttered, but Elizabeth could tell she was pleased with the comment.

Actually, if her mother were here, she'd probably be horrified at the familiarity that had developed between her daughter and the housekeeper.
One does not waste time in idle chatter with the servants. Too much familiarity breeds contempt
. She could just hear her mother's voice expressing her disapproval. They did things differently in the old days, she would say. But this wasn't the old days. The war had changed everything.

Even the king and queen had visited the bombed-out
ruins of East London and talked to the people on the streets. Unheard of before the war. Nowadays people lived for each day, grateful to survive. They were all in this together. There was something rather comforting about that.

As soon as she'd finished her breakfast, Elizabeth hurried to the study and closed the door. She was anxious now to try the telephone numbers she'd found on the application form.

Seated at her rolltop desk, she traced as best she could the smudged numbers on the back. The two she had to guess she left blank. Starting with a one, she substituted the blanks and dialed a number. The high-pitched rapid buzzing told her it was unobtainable. The next number she dialed gave her the same result. On the third try, a woman answered the telephone.

"I'd like to speak with Beryl Pierce, please," Elizabeth said quickly. It was the first thing that came to mind. She should have given this more thought.

"There's no one of that name here," the woman said, sounding apologetic. "Is she a novice?"

Elizabeth blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Perhaps you have the wrong number," the woman suggested. "This is the convent in East Common."

"I think I do have the wrong number," Elizabeth said faintly. "I do beg your pardon." She replaced the receiver and frowned at the smudges. Now that she really looked at the numbers, one of the blanks looked a bit like a five. She tried dialing again. Unobtainable. Thank heavens the North Horsham exchange had switched to automatic dialing a couple of years ago. She would have driven an operator crazy. Twice more she dialed, and then the call went through.

The woman on the end of the line answered with a
voice of efficiency. "Ministry of War, Land Army Recruitment Center. Can I help you?"

It wasn't often Elizabeth felt foolish. Right now she felt like the biggest nitwit of the century. The telephone number on the back of the Land Army application was for the recruitment office. Of course. Any idiot could have realized that.

She dropped the receiver in its cradle without answering the voice. There was no point in asking about Beryl, since she hadn't filled out the application. Idly she turned the form over, already trying to decide when she should talk to Beryl's friend, Amy.

There was the name of the recruitment center in bold black letters, with the telephone number printed underneath. So why was it scribbled on the back? She turned the sheet of paper over and examined the smudged number on the back of the form again. The numbers were different. Which meant that whoever answered the telephone just now wasn't in the general office of the recruitment center. She had to be in a private office.

With rising hope, Elizabeth dialed the number again. The same woman answered, sounding a trifle impatient. Deciding to take no chances, Elizabeth said cautiously, "I was given this number by an associate. To whom am I speaking?"

"This is Carol Simmons, recruitment officer. Can I help you?"

"Er . . . yes, this is a friend of Beryl Pierce. She gave me your number to call."

After a slight pause, the voice asked cautiously, "Were you interested in joining the Land Army?"

"No . . . er . . . that is—"

"You have to come to the recruitment center and fill out an application. We're in the High Street, on the cor
ner of Williams. Hours are ten till four." The line clicked and went dead.

Elizabeth replaced the receiver. Obviously Carol Simmons didn't deal with applicants by telephone. So how did Beryl get her number? Either she knew her personally or she went to the office to talk to her about joining up. The chances were this woman knew nothing more than the bare facts about her. Then again, Beryl could have recounted her entire life history during the conversation. If she had, there might be something there that could help point a finger in the right direction.

There was only one way to find out. It was all too easy to cut someone off when you didn't want to answer questions on the telephone. It was much more difficult to avoid those questions when sitting face-to-face with someone.

Tomorrow she would go to the recruitment center, Elizabeth decided, and somehow she would bring Beryl into the conversation. Her efforts might be a waste of time and not lead anywhere, of course, but if Carol Simmons knew Beryl personally, she might also know the mysterious Robbie. Elizabeth was very anxious indeed to talk to that young man. She had the feeling that Robbie, whoever he was, might well be able to shed some light on the untimely death of a young girl.

CHAPTER
9

Elizabeth spent the next two hours catching up on her bookkeeping and correspondence. She was on her way back to her room when she encountered Martin in the hallway. "I have a message for you, madam," he said, drawing his frail body up as straight as his stooped shoulders would allow.

"Yes, Martin?"

He stared at her over the rims of his glasses. "Madam?"

"You have a message for me?"

After another long pause, he scratched his head. "Darned if I know."

"Think, Martin," Elizabeth said gently. "Was it something Violet wanted me to know?"

"Violet? Well, now that you come to mention it, madam, I think it was. Yes. Violet. That was it."

"And what did she want you to tell me?"

Again the blank expression.

"Perhaps I should ask her myself."

"I think that might be a very good idea." Martin nodded his head up and down. "I'll tell the gentleman that you have been detained."

Elizabeth's heart skipped a beat. "Which gentleman?"

"The one in the drawing room. I told him to wait in there because you were in the study and I didn't think you should be disturbed."

"Major Monroe? He's here?"

Martin looked confused. "Didn't I announce him?"

"Of course, Martin." Elizabeth patted his arm. "I just forgot. I'll go right away."

"What about Violet, madam? Shall I tell her you'll be along later?"

"Please do. And ask her to send Polly up with some tea and biscuits, please."

"Yes, madam."

Martin shuffled away, and Elizabeth took a deep breath. First she had to still the rapid beating of her heart, then she had to remind herself that men in general were not to be trusted or believed.

Thus armed and protected, she pushed open the door of the drawing room. The man seated in the armchair rose to his feet as she entered. His cap lay on the table next to him, next to what appeared to be a bottle wrapped in brown paper.

"Major Monroe," she said hurriedly, "I apologize for keeping you waiting. My butler has only just informed me of your presence."

"That's just fine, ma'am." He swept a hand at the room. "I've been looking at some of your antiques. You have some interesting stuff here."

"Er . . . yes, thank you. Most of them have been in my family for generations."

"I particularly like that sword hanging up there."

Following his gaze to the saber hanging on the wall above the fireplace, Elizabeth smiled. "My grandfather carried that during the Boer War."

"No kidding." Earl Monroe gazed at it a moment longer, then reached for the package. "With my compliments, ma'am."

Flustered, Elizabeth shook her head. "Oh, I couldn't. I mean, that isn't necessary. Really."

"It's just a bottle of sherry, ma'am. Little enough for letting a mess of strangers into your home."

"Oh, it's really not that much trouble. One has to do what one can for the war effort."

"I'd like you to have it."

He held the bottle out to her, and good manners made it impossible for her to refuse. Feeling like a traitor to her own convictions, she took the package and opened it. "Cream sherry. How terribly decent of you. Thank you so much, Major."

"Earl. And you're welcome, ma'am."

"Right." She put the bottle down before he saw the slight tremble of her hand. "Well, I suppose we should discuss the arrangements for your men. How many will there be, exactly?"

"Nine, all told. I hope that won't be too much for you?"

"Nine? No, I don't think so. Though they might have a tight squeeze in the beds."

Earl Monroe smiled. "I reckon we can take care of that, Lady Elizabeth. We'll be bringing in cots for the men. And lockers."

"Oh, right." She felt out of breath, as if she'd been
running up Mistletoe Hill. What a ridiculous thought. She couldn't run up it even when she was a child. "Now, about meals?"

"We'll be eating mostly on the base with the rest of the men. We'll be out on missions a good part of the time, anyway. Weather permitting, of course."

"Oh." She stared at him, unsettled by his words. "I hadn't realized that army majors go on bombing missions."

"Army Air Force, ma'am. We're all qualified to fly. And these days we need every man we can get."

"Yes, I suppose so. I just hadn't thought . . ." Her stomach churned, and she made an effort to smile. "Well, then, if you have any more questions?"

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, ma'am, I'd like to see the quarters again."

"Quarters? Oh, you mean the east wing. Of course." She turned to leave, then paused abruptly when the major stepped smartly in front of her and opened the door. "Thank you." At least the man had manners, she thought as she sailed past him. It seemed, as she'd always maintained, that not all Americans were heathens after all.

Walking down the great hall with Major Monroe following a few steps behind turned out to be an unsettling experience.

She was quite relieved when he paused in front of a portrait, asking, "Is this one of your ancestors?"

"They all are. The gentleman you are looking at was my great-great-grandfather. He was seventeen when he fought at Balaklava during the Crimean War."

"Well, isn't that something." Earl Monroe studied the oil painting. "The Charge of the Light Brigade. Alfred, Lord Tennyson."

"That's right!"

She'd been unable to hide her astonishment, and he shrugged. "Majored in English in college."

Now she was really impressed. "Really? Where did you go to college?"

"University of Wyoming, ma'am."

Elizabeth considered that. "Isn't there some kind of park in Wyoming?"

It was his turn to look surprised. "Yellowstone. Yes, ma'am. First place to be designated as a national park."

"And mountains. The Rockies?"

He grinned, suddenly looking years younger. "Reckon you paid attention in class."

"I was always interested in geography." She moved on, feeling inordinately pleased. A thought occurred to her, and she paused, deciding she might as well take advantage of the opportunity. "Speaking of geography, I have a map that I believe might have come from your base. If you wouldn't mind waiting here for a moment, I'll fetch it."

"Take your time." He gazed up at the row of portraits. "I'd like to take a closer look at some of these paintings."