Manor House 01 - A Bicycle Built for Murder (16 page)

Elizabeth shut off her engine, which had the immediate effect of silencing the excited gabbling of the women.

"Stand forward and be recognized!" Rita Crumm demanded.

Someone in the crowd tittered and earned a ferocious glare from her leader.

Obviously, Elizabeth thought sourly, Rita had seen the main attraction at the Odeon last week—an epic about the Foreign Legion, according to Polly. Elizabeth had overheard her discussing the film with Violet.

"It's Lady Elizabeth, Rita," a timid voice offered, stating the obvious, while a faint chorus of polite greetings echoed her announcement.

Since Rita could hardly continue refusing to recognize her, Elizabeth saw no reason to obey the ridiculous com
mand. Instead, she straightened her beret, which had dislodged itself during her abrupt halt and was sitting sideways over her ear.

Uncomfortably aware of her unusually drab attire, she viewed Rita and her consorts with the same expression she might use had she met with a dead rat on the road. "May I ask what in the world you are all doing? Other than embarking on a suicide mission, that is. Have you forgotten that the Americans constantly use this road, and that they have absolutely no concept of the correct side on which to drive their lorries?"

The women nudged each other, accompanied by a ripple of loud muttering down the line. Rita's face turned a deep shade of purple, and she threw a fierce glare over her shoulder at the more audible members of her entourage. "Quiet!" She was a tall, thin woman—taller than most, and her imperious, sergeant-major voice had a note of authority that once more silenced her unruly followers.

Turning back to face front, Rita drew herself up to her full height, which was quite impressive, as even Elizabeth had to admit. "Excuse me, Lady Elizabeth, but we happen to be in training for a very important event. I have to ask you to identify yourself. It's part of the procedure."

"In training? For what?"

"The invasion, m'm. We have to be prepared. Now that all the able-bodied men have gone, it's us women who will have to fight the Germans when they land."

"Are we about to be invaded? I haven't heard anything on the wireless." With a spasm of trepidation Elizabeth scanned the motley line of would-be warriors. Most of them looked as if they couldn't take more than a few steps without running out of breath. Really, it was quite amazing how rotund these housewives could look, in
view of the rationing. If there were, indeed, an invasion from the Germans, and these women were the only barrier standing between them and the villagers of Sitting Marsh, there didn't seem to be a whole lot of hope for their future.

"They might not actually be on the way, Lady Elizabeth, but as long as them bloody Nazis . . . begging your pardon, m'm, but as long as them Nazis are sitting right there on the beaches of France and Belgium, there's a chance they could sneak across and take us by surprise. We always have to be on guard. That's what my little army is here for—to keep our village safe from those murderers."

Elizabeth nodded, feeling somewhat relieved. Apparently this was more a case of Rita Crumm relieving her boredom with another of her outrageous displays than an imminent threat from the hapless Germans. Rita was renowned for organizing the villagers into doing something spectacular and, more often than not, disastrous.

Where most of the women were content with growing extra vegetables in their gardens, knitting scarves and gloves for the men in the trenches, or collecting pots and pans and tinfoil for the airplane factories, Rita's idea of a war effort was to stage a full-blown extravaganza designed to grab the attention of the entire village and surrounding areas, thus establishing herself as a sort of modern-day Joan of Arc, smiting a blow for the Allies. At least, that was Rita's intention, by her own proud admission.

Although Elizabeth hated to admit it, she was often goaded into competition with the woman, not because she craved attention and glory but simply because she felt a need to establish the line of authority in Sitting Marsh. Left to her own devices, Rita Crumm was quite capable
of destroying the entire community with her misguided enthusiasm, and Elizabeth felt compelled to demonstrate the true source of leadership. Which was, after all, handed down from generation to generation by her worthy ancestors.

That wasn't always easy in this modern world, and especially in these uncertain times. In fact, Elizabeth had suffered more than one disaster herself in her efforts to maintain superiority over her rival.

"Well, I admire your vigilance," she told Rita, who was apparently waiting for some kind of rapturous praise for her brilliance. "I feel compelled to point out, however, that taking up this position on a blind curve is placing your little army in danger of being mowed down, if not by the Americans, then at least by a motorcar, which will render your troops somewhat ineffective should the Germans decide to visit us."

Rita's bony nose twitched. "This spot, Lady Elizabeth, is the best place for viewing the entire beach. You can see right down the coast from here. We should be able to spot a U-boat the minute it pops its ugly head up out of the sea. We don't want those buggers creeping up on us and taking us by surprise, now do we?"

"I'm sure we'll be somewhat forewarned." Elizabeth waved a hand at the cliffs and their thick necklace of barbed wire. "I can't imagine that an army of soldiers can cross the sands without stepping on at least one mine. In any case, I rather think they'll wait until nightfall to creep ashore, wouldn't you say?"

"We can't come out at night, Lady Elizabeth," one of the women piped up. "We have to take care of the children. We can only do this while they're at school."

"Ladies! We'd have to come out here no matter when the Germans get here." Rita turned on the unlucky pro
testor, apparently sensing a loss of the upper hand. "We all have to fight. Every last one of us. If any one of you hears those church bells ringing the alarm in the middle of the night, you wake everybody up, children and all, and get out here as fast as you can. That's the whole point of us training now, so we all know what to do when the Germans get here. We have to stop them somehow."

Rita threw her arm dramatically across her chest to smite it, a little too hard apparently, since she spluttered and coughed. Her next words, no doubt intended to be delivered in ringing tones, came out in more of a strangled croak. "It's your duty to God and your country."

The women looked at each other, obviously losing their zeal for the operation with the prospect of a confrontation at night.

"I wouldn't want to come out here in the dark," one woman said, her voice quavering. "Look what happened to poor Beryl Pierce. Just riding along here on her bicycle, she was, when some horrible murderer jumped out and grabbed her."

There was a general muttering of agreement and apprehension from the crowd. "Strangled her, he did," another woman confirmed.

"Yeah, and tossed her broken body into the sea."

"Oo, heck," a young housewife moaned, "I'm scared to be here even in daylight."

"I wonder if it was the Germans?" The frazzled-looking speaker looked nervously at Rita. "They could have come and gone, and we never heard them."

A chorus of frightened moans greeted this theory.

"Of course they did. Silly, silly me." In a fury of frustration, Rita exploded. "The entire German army landed on our beach, climbed our cliffs, murdered our Beryl, and then, thoroughly satisfied with their night's work, crept
back across a beach full of mines to their bloody submarine!" Her voice rose to a howl. "Why didn't I think of that?"

Her army, suitably impressed, gazed at her open-mouthed.

Elizabeth beamed, well pleased with the way things were turning out.

"Anyhow," someone said, "it wasn't the Germans. It was one of them bloody Yanks."

Her smile fading, Elizabeth jumped in to dispel the speculation before it got out of hand. "There is absolutely no reason to put the blame for Beryl's death on an American. It could have been anyone."

"More likely she was having some Yank's baby, and he got rid of it and her with it," Rita said with a little too much confidence for comfort.

"I think it would be a big mistake to spread rumors like that." Elizabeth appealed to the rest of the women. "We really don't want any trouble with the Americans, do we? It's really not fair to blame them for everything that goes wrong."

"Murdering one of our young girls is a lot more than something going wrong," Rita insisted. "Everyone knows what Beryl was—and she was as silly over the Yanks as the rest of the girls. I saw her myself, clinging to the arm of one of them, gazing up into his face as if he was Clark Gable."

"Oo, if he was Clark Gable, I'd be clinging and gazing at him meself," someone said.

Everyone laughed, breaking the tension. Elizabeth smiled with them, then amid a chorus of good-byes, fired up her engine and took off up the lane. Once out of sight, her smile disappeared. The problem was, Rita could well be right, especially if she was telling the truth about see
ing Beryl with an American. And there was no reason for Elizabeth to suspect otherwise. Rita might exaggerate from time to time, but she'd never been known to deliberately make something up.

It seemed as if her suspicions were right, Elizabeth thought, her mind going back once more to that small red circle on the map. She couldn't ignore the possibility any longer. She would have to ask Major Monroe to help her. In any case, it would probably be only a matter of time before George and Sid came to the same conclusion, and she hated to think what trouble they could cause at the base if they started poking around there.

She used that prospect to strengthen her case when she finally got through to the major that evening. When she'd first called she'd been told he was unavailable. Although he obviously couldn't mention it, she guessed he'd been on a mission with his men. He sounded unutterably weary, as only a man can sound when he has looked death in the face.

Her insides cringed in sympathy. She could only imagine what it must be like to take an airplane over enemy territory, knowing full well the odds of coming back alive.

He sounded surprised to hear from her. "I hope there aren't any problems with us moving in next week?" he asked as soon as he heard her voice.

"None at all." She paused, wondering how best to put this. "Actually I called to ask you a favor. A big one, I'm afraid, but I don't know what else to do." She remembered his words the last time she'd mentioned Beryl's death.
This is a job for the police
. She could only hope that he would prefer dealing with her rather than two retired constables who had long ago lost their alacrity for such a demanding job.

"Okay, shoot. If it's in my power, I'll be happy to do it."

"Well, it's rather delicate, to tell you the truth. You remember the map I showed you when you were at the house?"

There was a slight pause. "The map of the U.S. Yeah, I remember."

She heard the edge to his voice and crossed her fingers. "Well, I was looking at it later and I saw a small red circle drawn around a town called Camden, in New Jersey. Are you familiar with it?"

"Nope. Too far away from my neck of the woods."

"Well, that's why I was asking. I was wondering if it had any sort of significance. Other than being someone's hometown, I mean."

He caught on very fast. "Like the murdered girl's boyfriend. Is that what you're getting at?"

"Look, Major, I know this is awkward for you, and I don't blame you for being reluctant to discuss it with me. But if I don't find out what happened to Beryl soon, the constables will eventually form the same conclusions I have, and I'm afraid they can be rather bullheaded when it comes to an investigation. All I want you to do is to find out if there is someone stationed at your base by the name of Robbie who lives in a town called Camden, in New Jersey."

"And what if I find him? Technically he's on American territory. I can't allow you to question him, not without some kind of official order."

Elizabeth squeezed her crossed fingers tighter. "Yes, I'm aware of that. I was sort of hoping you could ask him a question or two."

A longer pause this time. "I could ask him, I reckon, but I can't force him to answer."

"No, I don't suppose you can." Elizabeth sighed. "Still, anything is better than nothing at all. He might be able to clear up a few things for me."

"Always supposing this guy exists."

"Yes, of course." She felt depressed. The major didn't sound as if he was prepared to make any special effort to get at the truth. She could hardly blame him. This wasn't his town or even his country. He was defending his men, as any good commanding officer would do in the face of adversity. Still, she had to make one last appeal to Earl Monroe's sense of justice.

"Major," she said carefully, "I should tell you that Beryl Pierce was having a baby. That could be the reason she was killed. I'm sure you are as anxious as I am to see that the person who was responsible for taking this young girl's life is punished in an appropriate manner."

He was silent for so long she thought they might have been cut off. Then his deep voice echoed in her ear. "I'll do my best to track him down. That's all I can promise right now."

Feeling only slightly better, she thanked him and hung up. She hoped and prayed he could find the man and clear him of the crime. She hated to think of the trouble it would cause in Sitting Marsh and probably as far as North Horsham, too, if Beryl's murderer turned out to be an American.

It wouldn't take very much for everyone to turn on them, especially the men. Already there had been fights in the Tudor Arms with soldiers of the British army. With most of the villagers up in arms about the problems and the prospect of housing the enemy in her home, so to speak, things could get very uncomfortable indeed.

CHAPTER
13

"I'm going to shoot that Desmond if he doesn't wipe his feet on the mat." Violet waved an arm at the muddy footprints marching across the tiled kitchen floor. "Just look at that mess. He should be made to come in and clean it up, filthy bugger. I bet he doesn't do that in his own home. Sheila would kill him."