Manor House 01 - A Bicycle Built for Murder (23 page)

With a glass of the cool lemonade in front of her, Elizabeth explained her theory, while Winnie sat perfectly still with a look of shock on her face.

"You're telling me that the man who murdered Beryl actually came into my home that night, after killing my little girl?"

"That's what I think." Elizabeth took a sip of the biting, tart drink and set it down. "Proving it might be a little difficult, but I firmly believe the murderer needed an alibi for the time Beryl was killed. He made it look as if she'd died Sunday morning, when actually she probably died some time on Saturday evening. If I'm right, he let himself into the house, rumpled her bedding to
make it look as if she'd slept in it, then left again."

"And I'd taken my tablets, so I didn't hear him leave." Winnie looked dazed. "But wait a minute. How did he get into the house? I always kept everything locked up ever since they warned us about an invasion. The only way anyone could have got into this house was with a key."

"Exactly." Elizabeth folded her hands on the table. "Which is why I'm here. Did Beryl have her own key?"

"Well, of course she did, m'm. She was always coming home late. Long after I'd gone to sleep. She had to have her own key."

"Where did she keep it?"

"In her handbag, I suppose. She always had it with her."

"The handbag she left in her bicycle," Elizabeth said quietly. "Did you happen to notice if the key was missing?"

Winnie's eyes grew to enormous circles. "Come to think of it . . ." She got up abruptly from her chair and hurried into the kitchen. When she returned, Beryl's black handbag was in her hand. "I know everyone searched this," she said, opening it up, "but we were all looking for what was in here. We never gave a thought to what
wasn't
in here."

She turned the bag upside down and let the assortment of hairpins, pencils, a nail file, coins, lipsticks, and several bus ticket stubs fall onto the table. Shaking it just to make sure, she announced, "Well, there it is. No key."

"Just as I thought." Elizabeth felt a small surge of triumph. "You're quite sure?"

Winnie pulled the bag open wider and peered inside. "Quite sure, m'm. No key. That murdering bugger must have taken it. Excuse me, m'm."

"Not at all." Elizabeth sat back in her chair. "Now I think we should have a little chat."

Long after midnight that night, a shadowy figure stood poised at the garden gate of Winnie Pierce's cottage. The intruder waited, head cocked on one side, to listen in the quiet stillness of the countryside.

An owl hooted somewhere deep in the woods, and a soft breeze rustled the branches of the oak tree, sending a dappled pattern of leaves across the shuttered windows. Otherwise all was quiet in the shadowed lane.

After a moment or two, a ghostly hand reached out and unlatched the gate. The clear skies allowed the moon to light the way up the long, neat path to the cottage door. The dark-clad body bent over almost double and crept stealthily up to the porch, where he paused.

His head turned, looking this way and that, then his hand snaked out and fitted a bright, shiny key into the keyhole. A twist of the wrist, and the lock slid open with only the tiniest of clicks.

Very slowly the hand pushed on the door. It swung open silently on its well-oiled hinges. Again the intruder waited, then after several moments had ticked by, stepped cautiously inside the living room.

Leaving the door open, the dark figure trod softly across to the stairs, then began to mount them, inching up one by one. About halfway up he paused, then, reassured, stepped onto the next stair. A soft creak startled him. At that precise moment, without a hint of warning, blazing light flooded the stairwell.

Momentarily blinded, he rubbed his eyes, then, heart thudding against his ribs, he stared up at the two figures standing at the top of the stairs.

"Good evening, Evan," Stan Pierce said in a cold, hard
voice the intruder hardly recognized. "Were you looking for something?"

Evan switched his gaze to Winnie, who stood by her husband's side, her hand gripping his arm, her face dead white against the shadows behind her.

Instinct screamed at him to run. He twisted around, all set to plunge down the stairs and out into the freedom of the night. But then he pulled up short as two burly figures appeared at the foot of the stairs.

"Going somewhere, were you, Evan?" George Dalrymple inquired. Sid Goffin merely smiled.

Just for a second Evan considered the possibility of shoving between the two elderly men, but when Lady Elizabeth stepped out of the shadows, it was just one too many to take on. Evan collapsed and sank onto the stairs. It was over.

"I can't believe you went down there last night," Violet said, dumping a soft-boiled egg down in front of Elizabeth. "What on earth were you thinking? The lady of the manor skulking around a tenant's cottage in the middle of the night waiting for a murderer to turn up. You could have been killed."

"I don't think so." Elizabeth spooned powdered milk into her tea and stirred it. "After all, apart from George and Sid, Winnie and Stan Pierce were also there. I felt confident they could handle Evan Potter. He's not that ferocious."

"You were still taking a big chance." Winnie went to the door of the kitchen and yelled, "Martin? If you want your weekly egg you'd better get to the table right now."

"Actually," Elizabeth murmured when Violet returned to the table, "I was in more danger when I went to see Evan yesterday afternoon. I mean, I was quite alone with
him in the barn. I suppose, if he'd had a mind to, he could easily have attacked me there."

Violet gave a little squeak. "What on earth did you do that for?"

"I had to make my visit look plausible. If I had taken someone with me, Evan would have been immediately suspicious. As it was, I was able to set him up without him suspecting a thing. Though I must say, if he'd known Stan had arrived home yesterday, he might not have been quite so eager to fall into my little trap."

"So what did you tell him to make him go back to the cottage?"

Elizabeth smiled. "Well, I told him I'd stopped by to let him know we'd discovered the father of Beryl's baby. He didn't seem too shocked by the news. For good reason, I found out later. I also very casually mentioned that Winnie had found something on the floor of Beryl's bedroom that the police believed belonged to whoever killed her. I told Evan that Winnie was leaving the object there until the inspector came down from Norwich today to take a look at it."

"Ah." Winnie sat down at the table. "And that's when Evan decided to go back to the house to get something he thought belonged to him."

"Exactly." Elizabeth glanced up as Martin ambled into the room.

"Good morning, madam. Lovely morning out there. I've just taken a turn around the grounds."

"Looking for the cowboys' horses, I suppose," Violet mumbled as she got up.

"Horses? They're in the stables, of course." Martin sat down, then immediately stood up again. "I say, madam, I'm most terribly sorry. Do, please, beg my pardon. I'm just not accustomed to seeing you here."

"Lady Elizabeth sits at that table every blinking morning," Violet said crossly. "I don't know how many times you say the same thing."

"Yes, quite." Martin adjusted his glasses, then peered over the top of them at Elizabeth. "If you don't mind my saying so, madam, you really should be taking your meals in the dining room, where it's proper for a lady to be dining."

"I don't mind you saying so at all, Martin." Elizabeth reached for a piece of toast.

"He's right, you know." Violet placed an egg nestled in a pale blue eggcup in front of Martin's place at the table. "Sit down, Martin. You look like a bloody recruitment poster for the army, standing there all stiff like that."

"If I have your permission, madam?"

Elizabeth sighed. Every morning Martin asked her permission to be seated at the table. And every morning she gave him the same answer, to which he gave the same response. "Of course you may, Martin."

"Thank you, madam. It is a privilege to share a table with you." He settled himself on his chair, which for Martin was a major operation.

Violet carried the third egg in its eggcup over to the table and sat down with it. "There's something I don't understand," she said, picking up her knife. "How did you know it was Evan? It could have been that Yank Beryl was running around with. Or what about his girlfriend? She had plenty to be mad about. What is it they say? Hell has no fury like a woman scorned?"

"I say, Violet." Martin glared at her across the table. "I don't think we should use such vulgar words in the presence of madam."

"It's all right, Martin. Madam has been known to use
the word herself now and again," Elizabeth murmured.

Ignoring Martin's look of horror, Violet asked, "So how could you be so sure it was Evan?"

Elizabeth couldn't help feeling pleased with herself. She'd been rather clever, even if she did say so herself. She picked up her own knife and neatly sliced the cap off her egg. Then she broke off a piece of toast and dipped it into the still-runny yolk.

"It was two things, actually," she said, after enjoying her first precious bite. "Evan's mother told me that Evan didn't get along with his father, and that he always made excuses to stay out of the house. It seemed odd to me that the day after Beryl apparently had stood him up, he'd spent that entire Sunday at home. I would have thought that was one day he would have much preferred spending the day in the Tudor Arms instead of fighting with his father."

Violet uncapped her egg with the same neat flick of her knife. "That was strange, all right. But then, he could have been sick with worry and didn't want to go out."

"True. Which is what I thought at first. But then something else he said bothered me, but it wasn't until yesterday that I realized why. Evan told me that Beryl had changed lately, wearing too much makeup, dressing inappropriately, and getting her hair cut short, that sort of thing."

Martin picked up his egg spoon and began tapping on the top of his egg.

Violet glanced at him, then turned her attention back to Elizabeth. "How did that tell you he murdered her?"

"Evan said that Beryl didn't arrive for their date that evening, and that he hadn't seen her in two days. But Winnie told me that Beryl had her hair cut short that Saturday morning. There was no mention anywhere in
the newspaper about Beryl's haircut, and the picture they used was an old one, when her hair was still long. Evan remained at home after her body was found, at least up until the day I talked to him. So no one could have told him about Beryl's new look. I had to ask myself, if Evan didn't see Beryl that Saturday, and no one told him about it, how did he know she'd had her hair cut?"

Martin went on tapping his egg, while Violet stared at Elizabeth. "Well, I'll be blowed! That's really clever."

"Thank you," Elizabeth said smugly. "I rather thought it was. I still had to prove my theory, however. I felt quite sure that if Evan was guilty, and thought Winnie had found something to incriminate him, he would attempt to retrieve it before the inspector could see it." Her smile faded. "I have to say, though, it was sad to see that boy break down when he was confronted last night."

"Did he say why he did it?"

Elizabeth watched Martin peel a tiny piece of shell from his egg and place it carefully on the side of his plate. "Yes, as a matter of fact, he did. Apparently he'd gone to North Horsham that afternoon on an errand and had seen Beryl talking to one of the American airmen. Evan said she was hanging on his arm, and he could tell they knew each other very well."

"So he got jealous, I bet. Can't really blame him."

"Well, Beryl, it seems, had done this sort of thing before, and something must have snapped in Evan's mind. Instead of going back to the Tudor Arms as they'd arranged, he waited for her on the coast road, determined to have it out with her in private. Beryl must have been extremely upset, since she made the mistake of telling Evan that she was having a baby and the father had refused to marry her."

"Beryl was having a baby? That poor Winnie. She's
lost not only a daughter but a grandchild as well. That's so tragic."

"Yes, it is." Elizabeth sighed. "Anyway, when Evan threatened to confront the American, and have it out with him, Beryl told him he wasn't the father. She told him the real father of her baby was a British soldier stationed in London.

Violet swallowed a piece of toast. "Oh, my, that girl certainly got around in her tea half hour, didn't she."

"Well, it was one too many betrayals for Evan, that's for sure. Especially since both men involved were in the forces. That must have been adding insult to injury in view of his bitterness about being unaccepted by the army."

"So he strangled her and threw her over the cliff." Violet shuddered. "What a terrible thing to happen."

Elizabeth glanced at Martin, concerned as to how he was taking all this talk of murder. He seemed not to be listening, however, intent on peeling the shell from his egg one tiny piece at a time.

"Evan threw the bicycle down after her," she went on, "hoping people would think that she'd fallen over. Then he went on to the Tudor Arms as if nothing had happened. He made sure everyone in the pub knew Beryl had stood him up, but he started to panic when he realized the police would probably know she'd been strangled."

"He might have known that," Violet said. She was watching Martin now, with a look of irritation on her face.

Knowing what was coming, Elizabeth nevertheless continued her story. "Anyway, Evan went back to the beach, intending to hide the body. When he got there, Beryl had disappeared, her body taken out by the tide.
The bicycle was still there, however. Evan took the key out of her handbag and went back to her house. He knew about Winnie's tablets, of course. Beryl had told him about them. He let himself in, rumpled Beryl's bed, and left again. He went straight home and stayed there for the next few days, therefore establishing a solid alibi for himself."

Violet seemed to have lost interest in the saga. She sat glaring at Martin, who was still peeling tiny pieces of shell from his egg. Finally, as Elizabeth had been expecting, her voice rapped out sharply across the table. "Martin! For Gawd's sake, why can't you use a knife to cut your blinking egg like the rest of us? By the time you get it open it'll be cold and hard as a bullet."