Manor House 01 - A Bicycle Built for Murder (17 page)

Elizabeth nodded absently. Her mind was on more absorbing situations than a dirty kitchen floor. She kept thinking about Major Monroe and wondering if he'd keep his promise to find Beryl's Robbie.

"It wouldn't hurt him to clean up before he comes in my kitchen, neither. I don't think he even washes his hands."

"Perhaps not," Elizabeth murmured.

"I watched him this morning. He stood right here in the middle of the floor and took off all his clothes."

Violet's words finally penetrated. Elizabeth jerked up her chin. "What?"

"Just wanted to make sure you were listening." Violet walked over to the table and sat down. "What's wrong, Lizzie? You haven't been yourself lately. Not ill, are you?"

Elizabeth smiled and shook her head. She was at a loss to explain her occasional bouts of melancholy, but neither did she feel like discussing them. "It's such a lovely day," she said, glancing at the open bay window, where yellow curtains wafted gently in the breeze. "How I wish I could take a long walk on the beach. I miss that so much."

"So do I." Violet sighed. "I wonder if the sands will ever be the same again once this war is over. It seems years since we had visitors. We don't even get people on the Stately Homes Tour anymore."

"It has been a while," Elizabeth agreed. "Not many people go on day trips these days. Most men are serving in the forces, and women don't like to go out without them."

"Doesn't seem to bother the women around here," Violet said tartly. "From what I hear, the pubs are full of them."

"Well, it's just as well we don't get the tour people now that we'll have the Americans in the house. It would make things very awkward. We would have to close off the most interesting part of the house."

"Oh, I don't know." Violet gave her a wicked grin. "I'd say that visiting the east wing with the Americans there would make the tour even more exciting."

"Not for the Americans, I imagine." Elizabeth propped her chin on her hand. "Violet, what do you think about getting a dog?"

"A dog? Why would I want a dog? More mess to clear up, that's what I say."

"I was thinking of getting one or two for company." Becoming enthused by the idea, Elizabeth sat up. "Cocker spaniels, I think. Or maybe something bigger. Red setters?"

Violet frowned. "You're serious about this?"

"Yes, I am. I think it would be fun to have a couple of dogs about the house." She jumped up from her chair. "In fact, I think I'll take a ride out to Gridlington Corners. I know there are several breeders in that area. I can make a decision after I've talked to some of them."

Violet got up more slowly. "You don't think that having a houseful of Americans is enough excitement around here?"

Elizabeth patted her bony shoulder. "Don't worry about the dogs, Violet. I'll take care of them."

Violet rolled her eyes. "Where have I heard that before?"

"I'm a lot older now. This time I intend to take care of them myself."

"What about this murder investigation? Have you given up on that yet?"

Elizabeth paused at the door. "Not really. I'm waiting to hear from . . . someone who might be able to help in that."

Violet sent her one of her sharp looks. "Nothing that's going to get you in trouble, I hope. You've been running here and there a lot lately. I wouldn't want you to get into something you'll be sorry for later."

"I promise you, Violet, I'm not getting into any trouble. I'll be back in an hour or so." She couldn't help feeling guilty as she wheeled her motorcycle out of the stable. She had deliberately kept quiet about her activities
the past day or two, knowing how much Violet would worry and fuss if she knew to what extent she was pursuing Beryl's killer.

She spent the morning touring the breeders' kennels, and by the time she left she still hadn't made up her mind which breed of dog she wanted. It was just too hard to concentrate, when all she had on her mind was how soon Major Monroe was going to let her know if he'd found Robbie.

When she returned to the Manor House, she had to ring the bell four times before Martin finally arrived at the door. Violet, apparently, was busy in the kitchen. One of these days, she promised herself, she would have a proper lock installed, one that she could open with a key, instead of the latches and bolts that secured the impressive entrance of the manor.

Now and again, if she was in a great hurry, she made her way around the house to the back door, but that meant tramping across the vegetable gardens and through the greenhouses, where she was invariably waylaid by Desmond, whose phlegmatic meanderings drove her absolutely potty.

Almost three minutes elapsed by the time Martin finally completed the complicated maneuver of opening the door, moving far enough back for her to step inside, then closing the door securely behind her.

Heaven help him if the Germans ever decided to drop their bombs on Sitting Marsh. Elizabeth wondered how her American visitors would react to this agonizing process of getting into the house. Military people expected everything to be done promptly and with the utmost speed. Uncle Roger, her father's brother, was a colonel in the Royal Fusiliers. She'd learned more about the Brit
ish Army from him than any civilian should ever have to know.

Speed and alacrity, he was fond of telling his bored niece, was imperative. It could mean the difference between life and death. If the Americans were to rely on Martin for their survival, they'd be doomed.

"They came for the saucepans today, madam," Martin announced, just as Elizabeth headed for the stairs.

She paused in midstride. "The saucepans, Martin?"

"Yes, madam."

Elizabeth retraced her steps. "Who came for them?"

"I'm not quite sure, madam. I think it was the War Office."

"Did they give you a receipt?"

"I think Violet has one, yes, madam. She gave them the saucepans."

Elizabeth tapped her foot on the carpet. The government had already confiscated most of the iron railings and the ornamental gate that had once barred the entrance to the driveway. Now they were after the saucepans. True, the country was in dire need of heavy metals for the airplanes, but it was really quite frustrating to have to hand over one's precious personal household items.

"Which of the saucepans did Violet give them?" she asked him, hoping that her housekeeper had enough sense not to hand over the family heirlooms.

"The tin ones you told Violet to purchase from the gypsies last year." Martin glanced in the tiny, diamond-shaped mirror set into the hallstand and smoothed a hand over his three strands of hair. "Violet said they were inferior."

"So they were," Elizabeth agreed, much relieved. "I only bought them to give that poor woman some money. She looked half starved when she came to the door."

"Well, I certainly hope they warn the soldiers they are inferior before they use them. Though I really can't understand why they don't use helmets."

Elizabeth turned this over in her mind, hoping that the words would begin to make some sense. Finally giving up, she took a wild shot at it. "The soldiers won't be using the saucepans for cooking, Martin. And I doubt very much if they'd be allowed to cook in their helmets."

Martin looked startled. "Cook in their helmets, madam? I should say not."

There were times, Elizabeth thought, when she seriously considered the possibility that she was the one going senile. "Sorry, Martin. You're confusing me."

"If I may say so, madam, it is I who am confused. A soldier would never cook in his helmet. Unheard of, I should say."

"Quite." Totally baffled, which was not unusual when trying to follow Martin's train of thought, Elizabeth turned for the stairs again, and heard Martin muttering behind her.

"Soldiers cooking in their helmets. What nonsense. They should be wearing them on their heads instead of inferior saucepans. What sort of protection will saucepans provide in the heat of battle, I ask you?"

Elizabeth continued heading for the stairs. The best thing to do in these circumstances was completely ignore him. She just couldn't resist giving it one last shot, however. "The soldiers don't wear the saucepans for protection, Martin. People melt them down to make parts for airplanes."

She left Martin struggling with the logistics of that and retired to her room.

Major Monroe came to the house late that afternoon. Elizabeth, who was in the conservatory at the time read
ing the latest edition of
Film Parade
, heard his familiar voice as Violet led him into the adjoining library.

She hid the magazine under the bright blue cushion of her white wicker divan and waited for Violet to make her announcement.

A moment later Violet pushed open the door and stuck her head in. "Prince Charming's here," she hissed in a loud whisper.

Probably loud enough for the major to hear, Elizabeth thought, frowning at her. "You may show him in, Violet."

The housekeeper looked astounded. "In here?"

Elizabeth's frown intensified. "Yes, Violet. In here."

"If you say so." Violet withdrew her head. From inside the library, Elizabeth heard her say, "You can go in, Major."

Bracing herself, she wished she'd had time to run a comb through her hair, and at least put on a dab of lipstick. She rose as the major's tall figure appeared in the doorway. "Come in, Major Monroe. This is a surprise."

"Lady Elizabeth. I sure hope it's not an unpleasant surprise." He'd removed his cap and held it in his hand as he ventured into the narrow, fragrance-drenched room.

She saw his gaze drawn by the wide vista of gardens spreading beyond the conservatory and realized she was holding her breath. This small room, with its glass walls overlooking the grounds and its massive pots of tropical plants was her private haven. This was where she sought refuge when the pressures of her obligations and duties became too harrowing to bear.

She seldom entertained in this room. She wasn't entirely sure why she was doing so now. It was important to her, however, that Major Monroe approve of her sanc
tuary, now that he'd been given the privilege of visiting it.

He didn't disappoint her. "Magnificent view," he murmured. "This is a dandy room. Looking out at a scene like that, you can almost forget there's a war on."

"I often do." She smiled, pleased with his reaction. "Sit down, Major. I hope you have some news for me?"

He turned then to look at her, and his expression worried her. His resentment at being put in a difficult position was clearly written on his face. "Yes, ma'am. I do." He took the seat she offered him—a small, wicker rocking chair. "What's that smell? It seems vaguely familiar, but I can't place it."

"It's either the ginger plant you can smell or maybe hibiscus." She waved a hand at the colorful blooms in a bright corner of the room. "I have both."

He nodded. "That's where I've smelled that scent before. In Hawaii."

"You've been to Hawaii?" She stared at him in awe. "That's one place I've always wanted to see."

"Well, you wouldn't want to be there right now, ma'am."

Remembering the pictures she'd seen of the devastation of Pearl Harbor, she had to agree. "I suppose not. This dreadful war. It changes so many aspects of our lives."

"None more than right here, I reckon."

She shrugged. "We're lucky, really, being so far from the city. Apart from the inconveniences of rationing and shortages, the lack of manpower and the occasional enemy fighter pilot straying off course, we're rather far removed from the worst of it."

"That might change, now that the Americans are building and taking over air bases all over the country."

She looked at him in alarm. "You really think so?"

"Who knows? But if I were Hitler, I'd sure want to destroy as many enemy aircraft as humanly possible."

"Oh, lord. I hadn't thought of that. I suppose so. Poor Martin."

"Martin?"

"Our butler."

"You have a butler?"

"Yes, haven't you met him? A rather frail, elderly gentleman. Almost completely bald and wearing glasses. Dark suit and black bowtie."

"Oh, the old gentleman. I thought he was someone's uncle." He gave her a quizzical look. "He seems a little confused at times."

Elizabeth sighed. "Poor Martin. I'm afraid his duties have become a little too much for him. He does what he can, of course, and Violet and I sort of . . . fill in, I suppose you'd say."

"And you still keep him on?"

"He's been with the family since 1887. A little long to be put out to pasture, wouldn't you think?"

"Holy cow!" Earl Monroe's dark eyebrows shot up. "How old is he?"

"He'll be eighty-four in September. I believe he was twenty-nine when he first came to the Manor House. My father was one year old at the time."

"He's seen a few wars, then. Your butler, I mean."

"Yes, he has." Elizabeth sighed. "I only hope he survives this one." She stared at her clasped hands for a moment, wondering what she would do without Martin's bowed figure hovering about the house. He had been in her life forever. She would miss him a great deal.

Throwing off her sudden fit of despondency, she
smiled at the major. "Anyway, what have you come to tell me? You found Robbie?"

"Yes, ma'am. I did. His name is Corporal Robert Barrows. His hometown is Camden, New Jersey."

She curled her fingers into her palms. "And he told you he knew Beryl Pierce?"

"Yes, ma'am." The major stared down at his cap, which he still held in his hands, now twisting it around and around.

Guessing his thoughts, Elizabeth said quietly, "I can't promise anything, Major, but I'll do my very best to keep this information just between us. Unless Corporal Barrows admits to strangling Beryl. Then the British police will have a say in it, no doubt."

"He didn't kill her, ma'am."

The conviction in his voice impressed her. "You're quite certain of that?"

"As sure as I can be. Barrows never left the base the weekend she was killed. He was confined to quarters for causing a disturbance in the mess hall. There are several witnesses who can testify to that."

"I see." Elizabeth slumped in her chair. Another dead end. "Did he tell you anything about his association with Beryl?"