Manor House 01 - A Bicycle Built for Murder (22 page)

Violet rolled her eyes. "Always got some excuse, you have." She piled the steaming, seasoned minced beef onto a dinner plate, then added an extra dollop of the fluffy mashed potatoes. After putting down the plate in front of Elizabeth, she filled another plate and set it in front of Martin.

"There, get this down your gullet and stop your complaining. You're bloody lucky to be getting meat at all, what with all the rationing and all. Though it seems a crime to me to put food like this on a Royal Doulton." She held up a clean plate and inspected it. "We should be eating venison or Dover sole on plates like this. What Lady Wellsborough would say if she could see us now, I dread to think."

Martin lifted his head. "Lady Wellsborough is back? Oh, my. Who opened the door to her? It wasn't I. Why wasn't it I? What will she think?" He struggled to get
out of his chair. "I have to go to her at once. She will think I'm shirking in my duty."

"Sit down, you old fool," Violet said crossly. "Lady Wellsborough can't be here, can she, unless it's her ghost."

Martin's eyes widened, but he obediently sank back in his chair. "Ghosts? We are being haunted? I always suspected the Manor House was haunted, but I've never seen any of the ghosts. Where did you see them? I'll be willing to wager you saw them in the great hall. It's the perfect place for ghosts to wander."

"I bloody hope not," Violet muttered, sitting herself down in front of her own plate. "If we've got ghosts in the great hall, we'll have a few bloody Yanks running around in their underwear."

Martin's knife and fork descended on his plate with a clatter. "I say, Violet, that's a bit much. In front of madam, too. You really should watch your tongue."

Violet snorted, then glanced at Elizabeth. "You're awfully quiet. Something bothering you?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "Just preoccupied." With her knife she edged some more of the meat onto the back of her fork. 'This is delicious, Violet."

Violet took a mouthful, then nodded in agreement. "Not bad. Could have used a little more salt."

"A lot more salt," Martin grumbled. "This tastes more like paper."

"Good, then I'll serve you the middle pages of the
Daily Mirror
tomorrow, since you can't tell the difference."

"I used to have fish and chips wrapped up in a newspaper when I was a child." Martin closed his eyes. "I can still remember the smell. It's been so long since I had fish and chips."

"Must be at least a bloody hundred years," Violet said nastily. "I'm surprised they had newspapers back then."

Elizabeth ignored their bickering. She was so used to listening to it at mealtimes it would be oddly quiet if they ever stopped. Instead she tried very hard to grasp at something that kept niggling in her mind, just beyond her reach. Something that someone had told her about Beryl, something that seemed important yet so elusive that it couldn't be significant. Or could it?

Anxious now to talk to the doctor, she cleaned the last of her plate and pushed her chair back.

"Where are you going now?" Violet demanded. "Not off again, are you? I was hoping you'd go over the east wing with me this afternoon, and tell me what you need done before the Americans move in."

"Americans? Why does everyone keep talking about Americans?" Martin laid his knife and fork down again. "Where are they, that's what I want to know. I haven't seen any Americans about. I'm sure I'd recognize one if I had."

Violet sighed. "They're not here yet, are they. You'll soon know when they get here, I can promise you that."

"Why? Are they bringing their horses? I don't think Desmond will like that at all."

"Desmond doesn't like anything that vaguely resembles work." Violet shook her head at him. "You don't have to worry, Martin, the cowboys have left their horses behind in America."

"Don't confuse him any more than necessary." Elizabeth rose from the table. "It's all right, Martin. The Americans will be moving in very soon now, but you really don't have to worry about it. They will be taking care of themselves."

"With Polly's help, no doubt," Violet muttered.

"I do hope they don't run into the ghosts," Martin said, looking worried.

Elizabeth abandoned the attempt to reassure him. "I need to ring someone," she said to Violet, "and then we'll take a look at the east wing."

"All right. I have the washing up to do, anyway. Thank goodness Polly's back. I'm going to need her."

"I've decided to have her come in every day once our guests are here," Elizabeth said, heading for the door. "I've already talked to her about it, and she's agreed."

Violet groaned. "Oh, Lord, I've got to put up with that twit every day? I'll never get anything done, that's for sure."

"Well, actually, she asked me if she could help out in the study."

"Polly? What can she do in there?"

Elizabeth shrugged. "Well, she could help out with the filing, I suppose. Heaven knows I could use some help."

"I hope you know what you're doing. If you ask me, it would be a big mistake having that girl mucking about with your papers. They'll end up in a worse mess than what you got now."

"Well, it won't hurt to try it for a while, I suppose." Deciding this was a good time to leave, Elizabeth let the door swing to behind her and hurried up the stairs. It was after two, so the doctor should have finished his rounds. She closed the door of the study, then thumbed through the directory. It took her only a minute or two to locate his number. Taking a deep breath, she hooked her finger and dialed.

The voice that answered her informed her she was the Sheridans' housekeeper.

"This is Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton, from the
Manor House in Sitting Marsh. I'd like a word with Dr. Sheridan if he's there?"

"I'll see if he's in," the voice politely answered.

A few more minutes passed, then a gruff voice barked, "Lady Elizabeth? This is Dr. Sheridan. What can I do for you?"

Elizabeth hesitated, then said carefully, "Dr. Sheridan, I realize this is a lot to ask, but I have a question about the recent murder of Beryl Pierce. I was wondering if you could help me with it."

She waited through the long pause that followed, and crossed her fingers. Finally the doctor answered her.

"You know, of course that this is official police business. I'm not sure how much I can tell you."

"Well, perhaps you can tell me this. Is it at all possible that Beryl could have died before Sunday morning? Such as Saturday evening, for instance?"

Again a pause, then Dr. Sheridan said cautiously, "Entirely possible. As a matter of fact, if it hadn't been for Mrs. Pierce's statement that her daughter didn't leave the house until Sunday morning, I would have been convinced she'd been in the water all night."

Elizabeth could feel her heart thumping against her ribs. "Thank you, Dr. Sheridan. I appreciate your cooperation."

The doctor sounded worried when he answered. "Lady Elizabeth, I'm not sure what this is all about, but I must caution you that if you have information that could be helpful in this case, you must inform the police immediately."

"If you mean proof of guilt, Doctor, I'm afraid I can't help you. Just pure speculation, that's all."

"Nevertheless, knowing the constables as well as I do,
they might well be interested in your thoughts on the subject."

Elizabeth smiled. "I promise you, Dr. Sheridan, just as soon as I sort it all out in my mind, George Dalrymple will be the first to know."

She replaced the receiver and leaned back. The Queen Anne armchair, with its deep seat and winged sides, had been her father's favorite place on which to rest. As a child she had sat on his lap while he'd told her stories about dragons and princesses and brave knights saving the day.

More than once he'd told her that he could think more clearly when he sat in that chair. After he'd died, she'd spent hours just sitting there, recalling everything she could about the father she had idolized. Now it was her turn to concentrate, and she couldn't imagine a better place to be.

According to Winnie, she'd assumed that Beryl had spent the night in the house because she'd heard her close the front door. Also her bed had been slept in. But what if Beryl had died Saturday night, and it had been someone else entering the house that night? That could explain why Winnie received no answer when she called out.

The intruder could have gone up to Beryl's room, messed up the bed to make it look as if it had been slept in, then left to establish an alibi. Once Winnie's tablets had started working, she wouldn't have heard that person leave.

If she was right, Elizabeth thought, then it was a daring plan. The murderer was taking a big chance on getting in and out of the house without being seen. Unless he already knew about Winnie's tablets.

For a long time, Elizabeth sat there among the shadows
of ghosts who had sat in that room before her. Slowly the pieces fell into place, one by one. When she finally rose from the chair, it was all clear in her mind. All that was left to do now was set things in motion.

CHAPTER
17

Before she could do anything, Elizabeth reminded herself, she needed to run over to the east wing with Violet. Now that she had the entire picture clear in her mind, she could afford to wait an hour or two.

The east wing, however, could not wait. There were only two days left before the Americans moved in, and there was still so much to be done.

Standing in the doorway of the master suite, she took a critical look around the room. "The curtains look so much better," she told Violet. "But now the bedspread looks a little drab. I really think we should wash it."

"All right." Violet glanced out of the window. "I just hope the rain holds off long enough to dry it on the line."

"You will have Polly polish the furniture in here, won't you?" Elizabeth crossed the room and pulled open the doors of the heavy wardrobe. "I think we should hang
some fresh mothballs in here. I should hate Major Monroe to find holes in his uniform."

She closed the doors again. "What about that lamp? Don't you think the shade is a little too flowery for a man? Perhaps we should exchange it for the one in the library. And that cushion will have to go. Much too fussy."

"Lizzie, will you please stop stewing about all this? It's only a few fly boys coming to stay, not the blinking king of England."

"They're visitors to our country. I just want to give them a good impression. I want them to feel at home here."

"And how many of them do you think live in a miniature version of Buckingham blinking Palace? Besides, I thought they were bringing in their own furniture."

"They are." Feeling defensive, Elizabeth reluctantly moved to the door. "I suppose you're right. There's no sense in getting too upset about a handful of American airmen."

"Good. I'm glad we got that settled." Violet followed her out into the hallway.

"But you were right about the air in the pipes. They do make such a beastly noise."

"Well, if it bothers them, maybe one or two of them will volunteer to do a little plumbing. We can live in hopes, anyway."

"Very well, I'll leave you and Polly to handle things, then." Elizabeth glanced at her watch. "Now I have to go out again. I don't know how long I'll be, but I should be home in time for supper."

Violet shook her head. "Gawd knows why they call you lady of the manor. You're never here."

"Well, after today I should be spending a little more
time at home." Elizabeth hurried down the stairs with Violet close behind her.

"Does that mean you're giving up playing detective?"

"It means," Elizabeth said as she reached the front door, "that I fully expect Beryl's murderer to be in the hands of the police by tomorrow."

"Go on!" Violet stared at her. "You know who did it? Who was it, then?" Her eager expression changed to alarm. "Here, you're not going to arrest him all by yourself, are you? You wouldn't be that daft, I hope."

Elizabeth smiled. "Don't worry, Violet. I have no intention of doing anything that silly. I'm not absolutely certain that I'm right, so I can't tell you who I think it is quite yet. But if I'm right, then everyone should know the truth by tomorrow."

"You're going to the police? The inspector, I hope. I wouldn't trust that George Dalrymple to hold onto a murderer, nor Sid Goffin, neither."

"What was it you were saying to me about worrying too much?" Elizabeth opened the door, letting in the warm sunshine of the late-August afternoon. "I promise you, I'll be careful."

She left Violet in the doorway and ran lightly down the steps. A few minutes later she was on her way down the lane toward Winnie's cottage.

She found both Winnie and Stan working in the front garden when she arrived. Both were red in the face and perspiring in the muggy heat. Winnie greeted her with a wave, while Stan wiped the sweat from his face with a large blue handkerchief.

"We're getting rid of these weeds at last," Winnie said, pointing at the wheelbarrow full of torn dandelions and thistles. "It's so good to have a man around the house again." She dropped her hoe and stepped onto the path.
"Come inside, Lady Elizabeth. I've just made some lemonade from that powder they sell at Bodkins, the grocers. At least there's still a few things we can get off ration." She glanced at her husband. "Coming in, too, Stan?"

He shook his head. "You go ahead. I want to finish here before it gets dark." He nodded at Elizabeth. "Nice of you to call, Lady Elizabeth. I want to thank you for being so kind and helpful to my wife."

"Not at all." Elizabeth gave him a smile. "I'll be attending Beryl's funeral tomorrow, of course. I just wish your return home had been under happier circumstances."

Stan looked down at his big hands resting on the handle of his garden fork. "So do I, m'm. It will be hard to go back, after this."

"I'm sure it will." Elizabeth followed Winnie into the cool shadows of her living room, her heart aching for the bereaved parents. How terrible to lose a child. Especially this way. She just hoped that her plan worked. Its success wouldn't bring Beryl back, of course, but at least Winnie and Stan would have the comfort of knowing that the murderer of their daughter would be brought to justice.