Manor House 01 - A Bicycle Built for Murder (2 page)

"Indeed. Though it might be an idea to ask Ted Wilkins if he's seen Beryl," Elizabeth suggested. "After all, he owns the pub, and he's there all the time. He might be able to help."

"I suppose so." Winnie stared down the road again. "I just wish Stan was here. He's so much better at this than I am."

Seeing Winnie's forlorn expression, Elizabeth was prompted to offer rashly, "Would you like me to see what I can do?"

She was immediately rewarded by the other woman's expression of relieved gratitude. "Oh, would you, m'm? I hate to ask, really I do, but I don't know which way to turn. I would be ever so grateful if you could find out where she is for me."

"Well, I can't promise anything," Elizabeth said quickly, "but I will do what I can. Please try not to worry. I'm sure she's just having a game with you."

"If she is, I'll box her blinking ears when she gets home," Winnie threatened darkly. "Thank you so much, Lady Elizabeth." She glanced at her front door. "Would you like to come in for a nice cup of tea?"

"Oh, that's very kind of you." Elizabeth gazed longingly up the garden path. Winnie's cottage beckoned with an air of comfort and cozy serenity rarely found in the vast, empty rooms and hallways of the Manor House. The tiny latticed windows, tucked beneath the thickly thatched roof and discreetly covered with white net curtains, were almost hidden behind masses of yellow marigolds burgeoning from the window boxes.

Daisies, hollyhocks, and Canterbury bells lined the pebble path, their graceful heads nodding in the sea breeze, enticing her to wander past their fragrance to the cozy warmth of Winnie's kitchen.

With a sigh Elizabeth resisted the impulse to take Winnie up on her offer. "I really should be getting back. Violet worries so much when I'm out on the motorcycle. She's convinced I'm going to meet with some dreadful calamity on the road."

Winnie eyed the gleaming red machine with a dubious look on her face. "If you don't mind my saying so, it
is
rather dangerous for a woman to ride one of those things. Not that it's any of my business, of course. It's just that I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you. I don't know what Sitting Marsh would do without you, m'm. Really I don't. After losing Lord and Lady Wellsborough like that and all. There's been an Earl of Wellsborough for as long as Sitting Marsh has been in existence. It just doesn't seem right not to have one anymore."

Elizabeth felt a pang of resentment. "Yes, well, it's unfortunate that women can't inherit an earldom. I'm sure my father would have preferred a son to whom he could hand down the title, but we can't all have everything we want."

Winnie's face flushed with dismay. "Oh, no, m'm, I didn't mean anything by it, really I didn't. You've done wonders for the village, really you have. There isn't one person living in Sitting Marsh who doesn't regard you with the highest respect and admiration. We all love you dearly, Lady Elizabeth. Every last one of us. Really."

Appeased by this outburst, Elizabeth relented. She was well aware that her sensitivity stemmed not so much from Winnie's remark or, for that matter, a lack of title, but from the fact that her mother had never been truly accepted by the villagers.

Elizabeth's mother, Mavis, had been nothing more than a fifteen-year-old kitchen maid when she'd caught the eye of Lord Hartleigh. He'd eventually married her, much to the horror of the villagers and Nigel Hartleigh's father, the Earl of Wellsborough.

Although Mavis had quickly learned the customs and manners of an aristocrat and had looked every inch the part, her lack of family breeding had remained a barrier between her and society for the rest of her short life.

Despite the fact that no mention of Elizabeth's diverse
heritage had ever been uttered by anyone in Sitting Marsh, she was constantly aware that the disparity remained in her background and no doubt would be handed down to future generations, if there were to be any.

The way things looked now, there was plenty of room for doubt, she reminded herself as she continued on her way, having assured Winnie that no offense had been taken.

Her marriage to Harry Compton had lasted less than nine years. Fortunately, as it turned out, there had been no child from that marriage, though in weaker moments Elizabeth found herself dealing with a deep sense of missing something important in her life. Her experiences with her ex-husband, however, had left her with a strong aversion to romantic entanglements and a profound mistrust of men in general.

Although her sense of fair play cautioned her that to lump all men into one odious category was not exactly cricket, her outrage and contempt over Harry's betrayal had deeply wounded her, and this was one area where she was simply unable to rationalize.

If Beryl had any sense, she'd stay away from men altogether, Elizabeth thought sourly as she pulled up at the wrought-iron gates that opened onto the Manor House grounds. She only hoped the poor girl hadn't run off with someone the way she had done so herself ten years ago. If so, more than likely Beryl would live to regret it.

Her dark thoughts scattered as she rode up the long driveway to the house. Passing through the wooded land with its myriad wildlife on either side of her always brought her a sense of peace, even in these turbulent times.

Fortunately, London and the major cities were too far away for Sitting Marsh to suffer the horrors of the bomb
ing—so far, at least. But even the petty annoyances and inconveniences of wartime seemed to fade into insignificance whenever Elizabeth saw the red brick walls of the Manor House coming into view around the tree-lined bend.

How she loved this sprawling, ancient mansion, in spite of its empty rooms, the plumbing problems, the leaking roofs, and drafty windows. This was her home, her heritage. This was what she lived for, worked for, prayed for with every fiber of her being.

Who needed a man, she asked herself, her spirits rising as she sputtered to a stop in front of gleaming white marble steps. Who needed a man when she had all this? This was her life: these stately grounds and proud, magnificent walls with their centuries of history locked behind them. This was who she was and always would be: Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Wellsborough. She was home.

It was only then that she noticed the vehicle parked on the other side of the circular driveway. It seemed she had a visitor. Moreover, by the looks of the dilapidated jeep resting against her flowerbed, the intruder was one of that much-maligned species, an American. Now, what on earth would an American be doing at the Manor House?

Feeling a deep sense of foreboding, Elizabeth hurried up the steps of her ancestral home and prepared herself for the worst.

CHAPTER
2

The heavy oak door opened slowly to Elizabeth's urgent summons on the clanging bell. Many times she'd thought about replacing the historical pull bell with a modern electric buzzer. Thank heavens her father had the foresight to have electricity installed in the house while there was still money to pay for it.

The bell, however, belonged to an era long since gone, and Elizabeth was reluctant to part with one of the fast-vanishing remnants of those idealistic times. She often thought how wonderful it must have been to live in an age when women were cherished and pampered.

Nowadays women were expected to act like men, taking the place of their male counterparts in factories, shops, and farms all over the country. Women wore trousers, drove lorries, dug ditches, and built airplanes. Sometimes it was hard to tell they were women at all.

While she might ride a motorcycle, Elizabeth assured
herself, she would never be seen in public without a decent frock and a hat—albeit at great inconvenience to herself at times. Still, appearances had to be kept up. Always a lady, as her mother had reminded her again and again.

The door finally opened wide enough for her to step inside the wide entrance hall, though the person behind it remained hidden. The familiar smell of furniture polish mingled with the fragrance of freshly picked roses, reminding her sharply of her mother.

Shaking off the painful twinge, Elizabeth put one foot on the embroidered welcome mat protecting the polished parquet floor and inquired cautiously, "Martin?"

She heard a faint scuffle of feet, and Martin's crinkled face appeared from behind the door. "Goodness gracious, madam! Whatever are you doing out there without an escort?"

Elizabeth sighed. Martin had been with the family since before the turn of the century. He had long ago outlived his usefulness as a butler, though he was completely unaware of that fact, thanks to Elizabeth's determination to give the doddery old man a home for as long as he needed one.

She, and for the most part Violet, too, turned a blind eye to his faltering memory and occasional bouts of dementia. Although his spirit remained as willing as ever, his body was often too weak to comply, and Elizabeth gamely undertook his duties, while making every effort to convince the senile gentleman that he was still in full possession of his faculties.

That wasn't always as simple as it sounded, considering that a large amount of the time, Martin lived in the past, when he and the modern world were still in their guileless youth.

She gave him a fond smile and gently closed the door with his hand still clinging stubbornly to the ornate brass handle. "Thank you, Martin. I see we have a visitor."

"We do?" Martin blinked owlishly at her over the thin gold rims of his glasses. He never could get the hang of looking through them, and constantly blundered into whatever obstacle happened to be in his path.

"The jeep," Elizabeth said helpfully. "It looks like an American vehicle."

"Does it really?" Martin shook his head. His white hair had thinned until just a few wisps remained, which he insisted on having trimmed every week or so, at great risk of losing what little hair he had left. Violet pretended to snip at the strands for him until he was satisfied that he looked respectable.

Elizabeth tried again. "Did you happen to see the driver of the jeep?"

Martin's watery blue eyes peered anxiously at her. "Perhaps if madam could enlighten me as to the nature of a jeep? I'm not familiar with that term."

"It's a motor vehicle, Martin. You know, like a carriage without a horse."

Martin nodded. "Ah, one of those newfangled contraptions. I trust you are not contemplating setting foot in one of those death machines?"

"Of course not, Martin."

"I should certainly hope not. Your father would turn in his grave."

"No doubt." Elizabeth glanced at the door on her left, which stood slightly ajar. "Martin, would you please ask Violet to send some tea and sandwiches to the library? Is Polly still here?"

"I think so, madam. I'll see to it right away." Martin inclined his head, then twisted around until he was facing
toward the steps that led to the kitchen. He shuffled a few steps, then halted.

Elizabeth waited until he'd maneuvered his body so that he was facing her again, then asked gently, "What is it, Martin?"

He shuffled back toward her and whispered loudly, "You can't go in the library, madam. There's a gentleman in there."

"That's quite all right, Martin. I'll use the utmost caution. Besides, Polly will be along any moment with the sandwiches, all right?"

"Ah, yes. Sandwiches. I'll have her bring them right away."

"And tea, Martin." She glanced again at the library door. "Perhaps you should have her bring some sherry, as well."

Martin shuffled off, muttering to himself and repeating his mission over and over as he climbed painfully down the stairs.

Elizabeth waited until he'd reached the bottom safely, then headed for the library.

The visitor had his back to her when she silently entered the quiet room. He was studying the rows of books—her father's books—that lined the shelves from floor to ceiling. Her father had been a great reader and had collected just about every piece of classical literature published.

Elizabeth took advantage of the moment to study the stranger. He wore the forest green uniform of an American air force pilot, which was becoming a familiar sight in Sitting Marsh. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his broad shoulders were squared in a typical military stance.

She must have made some slight sound, as he turned
sharply and impaled her with eyes so light blue they appeared to have little color at all. The contrast against his leathery, sunburned skin was startling. When he swept off his cap, she saw streaks of blond in his light brown hair. This was a man who lived outdoors in the hot sun. How he must miss that here in the cool mists of England.

"Good afternoon," she said, surprised to hear the tremor in her voice. She felt a little intimidated by the man's presence, and it wasn't a feeling to which she was accustomed. It had to be the uniform. This was the closest she'd been to an American, and some of the wild tales she'd heard about them gleefully circulated in her head.

"Ma'am." He offered his hand; then, as if unsure of the gesture, he withdrew it again. "Major Monroe, United States Air Force. I'm here to see the owner of this establishment."

He had a deep burr of an accent that made her think of cowboys and wide-open plains. She nodded warily. "That would be me."

He stared at her for so long she wondered if she had mud all over her face. Riding a motorcycle had more than one disadvantage. She raised her hands to her hat, just to reassure herself it was still anchored to her hair and not hanging down her back as had been known to happen in the past.

"
You're
Lady Wellsborough?" he said at last, sounding utterly amazed.

"Lady Elizabeth actually," she said pleasantly. "There is no Lady Wellsborough."

Now he looked confused. "But I was told that Lady Wellsborough owned this place."

"Then you were misinformed. Lady Wellsborough was my mother. She was married to Lord Wellsborough, my father, who was the Earl of Wellsborough. I, however,
am known as Lady Elizabeth. It all has to do with the inheritance of titles, which is terribly biased in favor of men and completely outdated as far as I'm concerned. In any case, it would take far too long to explain it all now."