Manor House 01 - A Bicycle Built for Murder (3 page)

"Yes, ma'am." For a moment he seemed to struggle with the information she'd given him, then apparently gave up. His gaze flicked over her. "I was kind of expecting someone a lot older."

"Sorry to disappoint you. How may I be of service, Major Monroe? That
is
what one calls you, isn't it? I'm not familiar with American customs. I wasn't aware that you had majors in the air force."

"Army Air Force, ma'am. Though I'd rather you called me Earl."

She lifted her chin, sensing he was making fun of her. "We usually reserve that title for gentlemen of nobility."

His laugh took her by surprise. "No, ma'am. That's my name. Earl Monroe. At least, that's what it says on my birth certificate."

"Oh, I see." Now she felt foolish. And annoyed at him for making her so. "Excuse me. I've never heard of anyone being called Earl before."

"Well, I've never met the daughter of one before, so I reckon that makes us even. So, what do I call the daughter of an earl?"

"As I've already told you, I'm known as Lady Elizabeth."

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "All the time?"

"All the time," Elizabeth said firmly.

He nodded, then swept a long glance around the library, taking in the high, ornate ceiling carved centuries ago, the majestic windows with their imposing view of the grounds, the vast open fireplace and Italian marble
mantelpiece, right down to the deep blue Axminster carpet. "Quite a palace you have here."

Elizabeth smiled, pleased by his warm admiration of her treasured domain. "Thank you, but it's not a palace. It's a mansion."

"What's the difference?"

She wasn't sure, but she was reluctant to let him know that. "In England, the word palace usually refers to the home of royalty." That sounded right, anyway.

"And you're not?"

"Royalty? Not exactly. Nobility, I suppose, would describe it more accurately."

"Could I look around?"

"Why, of course! I—" A faint tap on the door interrupted her. The door opened, and a young girl edged in, carrying a large tray.

Elizabeth was happy to see Polly wearing a dress. She was only a part-time maid and lately had taken to wearing trousers to work, despite Elizabeth's protests. Today she'd pinned up her long, dark hair into a tight coil circling around her head. No doubt the latest fashion of some film star garnered from a motion picture magazine. "You can put the tray down there, Polly," Elizabeth said, indicating a small table in the bay window.

Polly gaped at the American as she carried the tray past him and dumped it rather heavily on the table. Still staring at him, she backed away a few steps, then turned and rushed from the room.

Elizabeth sighed. "When I was a child, a maid would never have dared to behave in such an atrocious manner. But then, it's almost impossible to get decent help these days." She started toward the table. "May I offer you a glass of sherry and a sandwich?"

"Oh, that's real kind of you, ma'am, but I have to get back to the base."

"Oh." Somewhat nonplussed, she turned to face him. "In that case, you had better tell me why you are here."

"Yes, ma'am." Earl Monroe stared down at the cap he was twisting in his hands.

Elizabeth felt a small jump of apprehension when she realized the American was reluctant to give her the reason for his visit. Somehow she didn't think it was simply idle curiosity that had brought him to the Manor House. She waited, heart thumping, for him to raise his head.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said finally. "I've been ordered to inform you that your home is being requisitioned to house American officers for an unknown period of time."

It took her a full ten seconds to comprehend his words. In the long silence that followed his statement, she heard quite clearly the loud tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway, and somewhere downstairs a door slammed. No doubt Polly on her way out.

American officers. Here, in one of the most cherished stately homes in England? "That's impossible," she said bluntly.

Major Monroe at least had the grace to look unhappy. "I reckon there isn't much any of us can do about it, ma'am. The air base isn't big enough to accommodate the men as well as the officers. Yours is the only establishment within miles that would suit our purposes."

"Well, we'll see about that. I'll call Whitehall. I'll call the prime minister. I'll call the palace. This is an outrage." She stared in consternation as Monroe tucked his fingers into his breast pocket and withdrew a slip of paper.

"I reckon you should take a peek at this, ma'am."

The paper trembled in her fingers when she scanned
the typewritten lines. There was no mistake. The dictate bore the stamp of the War Office.

For a long moment she struggled with her resentment, then reminded herself, as she had so many times, that there was a war on. Just last year the government had passed a National Service Act, conscripting women between the ages of twenty and thirty for either military or vital war purposes.

There were rumors that the limit would be raised to fifty years of age before too long. It was only a matter of time. She might as well start doing her bit right now. At least she'd be allowed to stay in her own home. But she didn't have to like it.

She turned to gaze out the window, appalled at the thought of her home being overrun by the hooligans who had become the terror of the town. "When will this take place?"

He must have heard the tremor in her voice. "Next week, ma'am. I'm real sorry we have to do this, but I swear to you, they're all swell guys. They'll keep out of your way as much as possible, and they'll do their best not to disrupt the household. I'll see to it myself."

"Thank you, Major Monroe," Elizabeth murmured, "but I think we both know that life at the Manor House will be somewhat different for a while."

"Yes, ma'am. Let's just hope it won't be for too long."

"Amen." She headed for the door, saying over her shoulder, "I'd better show you around, I suppose. I'm sure you have to report back to your superiors."

She gave him a quick tour of the house, showing him only what she deemed necessary. All the time she mechanically answered questions, while her mind wrestled with the complexities of housing a number of men in her home. Violet would have a fit. Polly would probably
walk out. God knows how Martin would deal with all this.

She showed Earl Monroe the east wing, which had the most adjacent rooms, though the plumbing in the single bathroom could cause some problems. Something she'd have to face when the men arrived. No one had used that part of the house since her parents had died.

The American kept stopping in the great hall to admire the long rows of her ancestors' portraits hanging on the walls. It intrigued her that the man would so readily give up lunch yet linger to examine a few paintings.

By the time he left, thanking her profusely for her cooperation, she felt exhausted. Now she had to face Violet, which she wasn't looking forward to at all. She went back to the library, poured herself a large sherry, and ate two of the sandwiches before picking up the tray to carry it back to the kitchen.

Violet was seated in her favorite spot by the enormous open fireplace when Elizabeth charged through the door. She dropped the magazine she was reading and leapt to her feet, snatching the tray from Elizabeth's hands before she could utter a word.

In spite of a healthy appetite, Violet's body was thin and wiry, and with her frizzy gray hair standing on end more often than not, together with the ill-fitting clothes she insisted on wearing, she looked a little like a weathered scarecrow. Her features were pinched, her mouth small and puckered, and she had a habit of tilting her head onto one shoulder when she talked, often reminding Elizabeth of an inquisitive sparrow.

"I could have got this later," she said crossly. "Of course, if Polly hadn't shot off early, she could have brought it back. Lazy cow. I sometimes wonder why she
bothers to come here at all. Taking money under false pretenses, that's what she does."

Elizabeth sank into a chair next to the large wooden table that had dominated the kitchen for more than a hundred years. She buried her face in her hands and tried to calm her churning thoughts.

"What's wrong, Lizzie? Got a headache, have you?"

Elizabeth lowered her hands again. Violet was the only person in the world, besides her parents, who was allowed to call her by her childhood name. Although she knew that some of the villagers referred to her as Lady Liza, no one had ever called her that to her face. To all intents and purposes, she had always been, and always would be, Lady Elizabeth. And that included Major Earl Monroe and his merry band of men.

"Violet," she said wearily, "I'm afraid I have some rather disturbing news."

"Oh. Gawd." Violet clutched her chest. "Not someone been killed?"

"No, no, nothing like that." For a moment a vision of Beryl's perky face sprang to mind. Elizabeth quickly shook off the image. "No, it's the American air force."

"Ah." Violet's chin bobbed up and down. "Polly told me about him. Said he was really handsome."

Elizabeth looked her straight in the eye. "Really? I can't say I noticed."

"Well, you know Polly. She thinks anything in trousers is handsome. Course, now that women are wearing them, too, I suppose I can't say that no more. Anyhow, what did he want?"

"He wants us to house some of the officers from the base."

Violet's voice rose to squeak. "Americans? In here? I hope you told him to bugger off."

"It's wartime, Violet. We all have to make sacrifices. I told him we'd do what we could to help out." She hoped that Violet would accept the news more easily if she didn't know it had been a direct order.

"Why'd they have to pick here? What's wrong with putting them up at the pub or the cricket pavilion? Now that the men are all gone, the clubhouse is empty. No one ever uses it now, except for youngsters looking for trouble." Violet got a faraway look in her eyes. "I really miss them cricket matches. Made a nice afternoon out, it did."

Elizabeth silently agreed. "The cricket pavilion doesn't have bathing facilities. The Manor House really is the only place available for those men. I don't see how we can refuse."

The housekeeper still looked disgruntled. "I hope I don't have to cook for that lot. What do Americans eat, anyhow? Probably want me to kill a cow for them, more'n likely. Do they know we've got rationing? How are we supposed to feed all of them?"

"I daresay they will make their own arrangements for meals," Elizabeth said, hoping for the best. "In any case, I have something more important to worry about right now. I saw Winnie Pierce on my way back home. She tells me Beryl has been missing for two days. I promised her I'd do what I can to find out where she is."

"Oh, crikey, that was probably a mistake. You know what Beryl Pierce is like. You could be walking into a whole lot of trouble, there."

Elizabeth heaved yet another sigh. She hated to admit it, but something told her that Violet was absolutely right. This was not turning out to be one of her better days.

CHAPTER
3

"We really should put up new curtains at these windows," Elizabeth said later that afternoon. "These are so threadbare they'll fall apart before too long. Especially now that they'll be pulled back and forth every day."

"No one's going to notice them with the blackout blinds under them," Violet muttered. "They make any kind of curtains look ugly."

Elizabeth gloomily agreed. She and Violet were standing in the master suite of the east wing, trying to decide what renovations were needed and what she could afford. The gap between the two specifics seemed insurmountable.

Scrutinizing the faded wallpaper, with its oblique design of peasant girls gathering flowers in what appeared to be an endless meadow, she murmured, "This pattern seems awfully inappropriate for military quarters. The pa
per seemed so glamorous when Mother picked it out, but now it reminds me of a bordello in Paris."

Violet's sparse eyebrows arched in horror. "When did you ever see one of those places?"

"Never, though at times I feel like running off to one. What are we going to do with these walls? We simply don't have time, let alone the money, to redecorate now."

"If you ask me, you're worrying far too much." Violet waved an arm at the walls. "These men are used to army barracks. This house will seem like blessed paradise compared to that. Besides, they'll have so much stuff on the walls they won't even notice the paper."

"But the curtains—"

"What are you worrying about curtains for? We'll just take them down."

"We can't do that. Those black blinds are so awful. We need something to brighten up the windows."

"From what I hear in the village, the Yanks aren't too fussy about anything like that. You should hear what that Rita Crumm says about—"

"I'd rather not." Aware that she'd butted in rather rudely, Elizabeth added, "I really think we should discourage gossip as much as possible under the circumstances. Especially from Rita Crumm. She has such a beastly habit of exaggerating everything she hears. I'm sure there will be enough talk once everyone discovers we are entertaining Americans as our guests."

"Oh, crikey, I can hear them now." Violet cocked her head to her shoulder. "You know, Lizzie, it's not very good for your reputation—alone in this house with a bunch of rowdy Americans. What if one of them gets saucy?"

Elizabeth smiled. "I'm quite sure they'll all be far too
busy fighting the war to pay attention to me. Besides, I'm a good deal older than most of them."

"I don't know about that." Violet sent her a sly look from the corner of her eye. "What about that major, then? I bet he's older than you."

Elizabeth reached out for a fold of the heavy damask curtain and gave it a shake. "Major Monroe has to set an example to the rest of the men. I'm quite sure he'll be the epitome of decorum."

Violet sniffed. "From what I've heard, those Yanks don't know the meaning of the word. I can see trouble coming, especially with young Polly in the house. Without a chaperone we three women will be at their mercy."