Manor House 01 - A Bicycle Built for Murder (15 page)

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Elizabeth murmured.

"Yes, well, I think Evan feels as if he let his dad down. You know, not getting in the army like his brothers. Anyway, ever since then, he's been staying out of his way, spending most of his time in the Tudor Arms. Only now he hasn't been down there since Saturday night. Hasn't been anywhere, poor lamb. I told him this morning he should go down the pub for a pint, thinking it might cheer him up a bit, but he said he didn't feel like going anywhere without Beryl."

"That is sad," Elizabeth agreed. "I would like a word with him, if that's all right?"

"Of course, m'm. He's out there in the east field.
You'll find it easier if you go down the lane to the second gate."

Reaching the fields a few moments later, Elizabeth spotted Evan gathering the stacks of wheat that had already been cut, tied, and propped on end. She leaned her motorcycle next to the fence and opened the gate to let herself into the field.

Evan's horse and wagon were at the far side, and although she did her best to tread in between the rows of shorn wheat as she made her way across, the stubbly stalks scratched her ankles quite painfully, and she was limping when she finally reached Evan.

He paused in the act of swinging a pitchfork into the next stack of wheat and stared at her in astonishment when he caught sight of her. "Lady Elizabeth?" His glance slid past her, as if he half expected someone to be accompanying her. "What are you doing out here?" He snatched off his cap. "Begging your pardon, m'm. I just wasn't expecting you, that's all."

Elizabeth smiled. "I didn't mean to startle you, Evan. I just wanted to ask you if you knew . . . that Beryl was pregnant."

She'd hoped to shock him into a reaction, but he merely turned away from her and jabbed his pitchfork into the wheat. Lifting the heavy load with remarkable ease, he swung it onto the cart. "So I heard," he muttered at last. "P.C. Dalrymple already told me."

"I suppose you realize that people will think you are the father."

Evan's face turned bright red. Eyes blazing, he jabbed the pitchfork into the wheat with such force it toppled over. "I ain't the bleeding father," he said with a belligerence that surprised Elizabeth. "I told the constable that. Me and Beryl never went that far. She would never let
me.
I
didn't even know she was in the family way. Never bloody told me about it."

There was a ring of credibility in his voice, and something else—a tinge of disbelief—that convinced Elizabeth he was telling the truth. Obviously the news of Beryl's condition had come as a shock to the young man.

Feeling sorry for him, Elizabeth said quietly, "Are you sure there isn't anything you can tell me that might help discover who was responsible for Beryl's condition?"

"No, m'm. Nothing." He grabbed the pitchfork and swung the stack up onto the wagon. "Beryl's always been secretive, if you know what I mean. She changed a lot since her dad went off in the navy. Started wearing cheap clothes, had her hair cut off, plastered her face with makeup. I hardly knew her anymore. I told her she was looking common, but she wouldn't listen to me. I told her she'd end up in trouble, going around looking like that . . ." His voice trailed off, and he leaned his shoulder against the wagon, obviously fighting genuine emotion.

"Well, thank you, Evan. I'm sorry I upset you." Elizabeth left him to his grief and trudged back across the field to her motorcycle. She felt as sure as she could be that Evan was not the father of Beryl's baby. That left Steve . . . or Robbie. Maybe Carol Simmons, the woman in the recruitment center, could tell her something that might help.

Mindful of her disguise as an applicant for the Land Army, she dressed carefully for her visit to North Horsham. She'd found a sensible white cotton skirt to wear, wide enough to give her the room she needed on her motorcycle. Thanks to the shortage of fabrics, most of the new clothes nowadays were so narrow she found it impossible to sit astride the saddle, and one could hardly ride a motorcycle sidesaddle like a horse.

Her pink jumper had been knitted by Violet, in the days when one could still buy enough wool to make a sweater. She simply could not go out without a hat, and after much dithering among her abundant choices finally settled on a black beret set jauntily at an angle and secured with a butterfly hatpin.

Feeling somewhat dowdy in the simple clothes, Elizabeth roared down the main street of North Horsham, collecting curious stares from those who were not familiar with the late Earl of Wellsborough's daughter and were no doubt wondering why such a fragile-looking woman would use such a precarious mode of transportation.

Which just went to show, Elizabeth thought, not without some satisfaction, that they didn't know her at all. People, even ones she knew, sometimes underestimated her strengths. What she lacked in muscle she made up for in determination. Where there was a will, there was a way, as the saying went. And Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton had quite a formidable will.

It held her in good stead when she marched into the recruitment center and asked for Carol Simmons. The stern-looking woman behind the counter didn't even look up. "You need to fill out an application first."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You don't see Carol until you fill out an application."

Interesting, Elizabeth thought, since Beryl's application wasn't filled out. Maybe Carol Simmons would be helpful after all. She sat down at a small card table to fill out the form, using a fictitious address. Once she had gained Carol Simmons's confidence, she decided, she could simply say she'd changed her mind about joining the Land Army.

When she had answered all the questions, she laid the
form down in front of the surly woman, who waved a hand at a door across the room. "Take it with you. In there."

"Thank you, you're so terribly kind." Ignoring the woman's startled expression, Elizabeth crossed the room and tapped gently on the door before opening it.

A young woman sat at a small desk littered with papers. "Come in and sit down," she said, also without bothering to look up. She seemed to be engrossed in the sheet of paper in her hand.

Elizabeth laid the application form on the desk and sat down on a very uncomfortable slatted chair.

After several irritating moments of silence broken only by the scratching of Carol Simmons's pen, the woman finally reached for the form and drew it toward her. "Ms. Compton," she said, studying the sheet of paper, "have you had any experience with farm work?"

Elizabeth thought about it. "I've ridden a few horses in my time."

Carol Simmons got a look on her face that clearly showed her exasperation. "No experience." She scribbled something on the form. "I suppose it's too much to expect you know how to drive a tractor. How about a motorcar?"

"Actually I ride a motorcycle," Elizabeth said, beginning to feel somewhat inadequate.

That raised the other woman's head. "A motorcycle?" She stared at Elizabeth for a moment, then narrowed her eyes. "Wait a minute. Don't I know you? I've seen you somewhere before . . . "

Elizabeth's heart sank. She wished now she hadn't given in to the silly impulse to hide her identity. She was taking this detective business far too seriously. If she
wasn't careful, she warned herself, she could very easily get herself into serious trouble. And judging from the way Carol Simmons was glaring at her, that trouble could very well be about to descend on her head.

CHAPTER
12

In a last-ditch attempt to bluff her way out, Elizabeth shook her head. "I don't think—"

"Yes, I've got it." Carol Simmons snapped her fingers. "You're Lady Elizabeth something or other. From the manor at Sitting Marsh. I saw your picture in the papers, giving a speech at the flower show."

"Well, now that you mention it—"

"Here! You've been giving me a bunch of lies." Carol Simmons surged from her seat. She was a very large lady, with arms the size of tree trunks.

Looking at the fierce scowl on her face, Elizabeth decided it might not be prudent to attempt to deceive her any further. "Miss Simmons—"

"You lied to me. You're not here to join the Land Army. I could have you arrested. How do I know you're not in here to steal government secrets?"

Elizabeth's temper finally came to the rescue. "Young
lady!" Her voice snapped across the room with the sting of a whiplash. "I have no interest whatsoever in your precious government secrets. Furthermore, I am not accustomed to being addressed in that vulgar manner. I regret my small deception, but under the circumstances, I felt you might feel too constricted to talk freely if you were aware of my true identity. Obviously I needn't have worried. You apparently have no concept of polite conversation with a member of gentility."

Carol Simmons opened her mouth, shut it again, and slumped down on her chair. "Well, excuse me, your ladyship," she muttered. "But I have to be careful these days. For all I know, you could have been a spy."

"And you could easily be Mussolini in disguise." Elizabeth crossed her arms. "I am, however, prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt. I'd appreciate it if you would offer the same courtesy."

She immediately regretted her vulgar outburst, but Carol Simmons apparently had thick skin. She merely shrugged. "I'm just trying to do my job. So what did you come here for, if you didn't come to join the Land Army . . . your ladyship?"

Elizabeth wisely ignored the tinge of sarcasm. "I wanted to ask you about someone I believe might have been a friend of yours." She opened her handbag and took out the application form then passed it across the desk, the smudged side uppermost. "Is this your handwriting?"

Carol Simmons stared at the telephone number for a moment. "Yes, it is. Where did you get this?" She looked up sharply. "It was you on the telephone yesterday, wasn't it? The friend of Beryl Pierce?"

"Yes." Elizabeth nodded at the sheet of paper in Carol
Simmons's hand. "That paper was discovered in the saddlebag of Beryl's bicycle."

The other woman frowned. "Beryl? But I don't understand. I—"

"Miss Simmons, I don't know if you have heard the sad news, but Beryl was killed last Saturday. I'm sorry if she was a friend of yours—"

She broke off as Carol uttered a sharp cry. "Killed? How?"

"We don't know that yet. The police are working on the case at the moment." Anticipating the next question, she added hurriedly, "I offered to assist the police by asking some of Beryl's friends if they knew anything that could help in the investigation."

Carol's face had gone quite white. "I didn't know her very well," she said faintly. "I . . . we met at a dance in North Horsham. She asked me about the Land Army, and I wrote down my number on the back of a form to give her. That was the last time I saw her. I swear."

"Then you wouldn't know any of Beryl's boyfriends."

It seemed as if the answer came a little too fast. "No, m'm. None at all. Sorry I can't help you."

"Did you happen to see her with anyone at the dance?"

Carol Simmons shrugged, though the expression on her face was far from casual. "I saw her with lots of people at the dance. But I couldn't tell if any of them were her boyfriend. She was throwing herself at everyone who looked at her, if you know what I mean." The bitter note in her voice clearly conveyed her disapproval.

Elizabeth took back the form and tucked it into her handbag again. "Well, I'm sorry to have taken up your time, Miss Simmons. Thank you for answering my questions."

"I'm sorry I couldn't be more help." Carol Simmons
picked up a pencil and started tapping it on the desk. "Perhaps you could let me know if they find out who did it?"

"I'm sure when they do the news will be all over the newspapers." Elizabeth reached the door and looked back. "I'm surprised an account of Beryl's death isn't in it already."

"Well, it's the war, I expect. Papers are full of it these days. Don't have room for nothing else."

"Quite." Elizabeth nodded, then let herself out into the noisy street. A double-decker bus roared by, sending black smoke and fumes into the sunny afternoon. She couldn't wait to get back to the peace and quiet of Sitting Marsh, especially since her trip here appeared to be in vain. Though something told her that Carol Simmons wasn't telling her everything she knew. She couldn't help wondering just what it was the woman was trying to hide.

On her way back to the village, Elizabeth decided to take a look at the area where Beryl's bicycle was found. She couldn't imagine what she might find, since both George and Sid had thoroughly searched the area, according to them. Still, in all the mysteries she'd read, the detective always examined the scene of the crime, and so far she hadn't done that yet.

She smiled to herself as she sailed down the coast road to the cliffs. In spite of the hazards, she rather liked thinking of herself as a detective. Sort of exciting, really. Although a lot of times her efforts ended in frustration, it did give her a sense of achievement when another piece of the puzzle surfaced. She'd always enjoyed working with a jigsaw puzzle, and trying to solve a murder was somewhat similar. Except that right now she had lots of pieces of the puzzle, and none of them fit in anywhere. To make matters worse, something kept niggling in the
back of her mind: a feeling that she'd missed something important, though she couldn't imagine what it might be.

She was still wrestling with the problem when she rounded the curve and almost ran into a large group of women, all of whom apparently had a death wish, since they were strung across the road elbow to elbow. After frantically applying the brakes and narrowly avoiding a nasty skid, Elizabeth was further unnerved by the sight of each woman holding a pitchfork, a garden spade, or some other equally threatening weapon in her hand.

"Halt!" The lanky woman in the middle stepped forward and held up a commanding hand. "Who goes there?"

With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Elizabeth recognized Rita Crumm, a woman notorious for her penchant for ferreting out the tiniest whisper of gossip and repeating it loudly enough and often enough for the entire community to hear. Usually with some kind of embellishment to render her news even more interesting.