Manor House 01 - A Bicycle Built for Murder (6 page)

Recognizing Jack Mitchem, the local butcher, she nodded affably. "Good evening, Mr. Mitchem. I haven't seen you in quite a while. I do hope the business is going well, all things considered?"

"Very well, m'm, thank you." As if suddenly remembering his manners, he added, "May I introduce you to my father, Tom Mitchem? Came down from the Smoke for a while, he has. Getting a little too noisy for him up there. Pop, this is Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh, from the Manor House."

Elizabeth gave the elderly man a sympathetic smile. "I imagine living in London these days must be quite traumatic. How nice that you can get a respite for a while in our quiet little village."

The butcher's father looked as if he didn't understand
a word she'd said, but he nodded and smiled anyway.

Alfie returned to the counter and set down a small glass half filled with the dark red liquid. Elizabeth opened her handbag, but Alfie held up his hands. "On the house, Lady Elizabeth. After all, it isn't every day we get a visit from the lady of the manor."

"That's very kind of you, Alfred. Thank you." Elizabeth took a dainty sip from the glass and discreetly swished the potent wine around her tongue before swallowing it. "Now, I wonder if I could have a word with you?" She glanced at the two men at her side. "It's rather private."

Jack Mitchem lifted two foaming glasses of beer off the counter. "Well, if you'll excuse us, m'm, we'll find ourselves a table."

Elizabeth waited until the two men had settled themselves across the room before turning back to Alfie. "I suppose you have heard about Beryl Pierce disappearing?"

Alfie nodded. "Nasty business. I heard they found her bike down on the beach. Drowned in the sea, I expect, poor little bugger."

"Oh, dear, I do hope not." Though she had to admit the possibility seemed logical. "I was wondering, Alfred, if you happened to notice Evan Potter here in the lounge on Saturday night."

"Yes, m'm, I saw him. Sat all by himself in that corner, he did." Alfie nodded to a corner of the room by the narrow windows. "Didn't want to talk to no one that night. Can't say as I blame him, seeing as how his girlfriend didn't turn up."

"Did you happen to notice what time he left?"

Alfie shook his head. "Gets real busy around about closing time. Those Yanks never want to leave. I can yell,
'Time, gentlemen, please,' over and over again, as loud as I like. They don't take no notice. I have to practically shove them out the door. I think Evan left about the same time as everyone else, though."

Elizabeth nodded. "Well, thank you, Alfred."

Alfie looked worried. "Here, he's not in any trouble, is he? I mean, I wouldn't want to get him in any bother, or nothing like that. I didn't see him leave, but—"

"Don't worry, Alfred." Elizabeth drained the last of the port and set down her glass. "I was just curious, that's all. No harm done."

Just then the street door swung open, and a group of Americans entered, all seemingly talking at once.

Elizabeth picked up her handbag, nodded at Alfie, then quickly crossed the room.

One of the American airmen, a freckle-faced youth who looked as if he hadn't eaten a proper meal in months, stepped in front of her as she reached the door.

"Hey, there, gorgeous," he drawled in his distinctive accent. "How about keeping a lonesome flier company for a while? I reckon a cute chick like you knows how to have some fun, right?"

Elizabeth reminded herself how far these young men were from home and how imperative it was to remain on good terms with England's American allies. "Thank you," she said firmly, "but I make it a policy never to date anyone until we've been properly introduced and I've been acquainted with him for at least six months."

While the American was still struggling to digest that, she slipped past him and out into the cool, clean sea air. Roaring up the High Street on her motorcycle, she wondered how many times Beryl had been approached by one of those brash Americans. There were just too many temptations for a young, impressionable girl of Beryl's
tender age, and too many opportunities for getting into trouble.

Whatever trouble Beryl Pierce was in, however, Elizabeth was painfully aware that she was no closer to the answers. As time went on with no word from the child, it seemed likely that she'd met with some kind of accident. If she had drowned in the sea, as the bartender had suggested, her mother would be absolutely devastated. Elizabeth ached for the poor woman. So many people were dying these days in this dreadful war. To perish so young from something as preventable as a simple accident would be such a terrible, senseless waste.

Elizabeth bent her head against the buffeting wind and hoped with all her heart that her fears were unfounded. Somehow she had to find out the truth. It would seem that she had taken on a formidable task, but she couldn't give up now. Someone, somewhere, must know what had happened that fateful morning, when a young girl left her home and never came back. That person could well be the mysterious Robbie. Somehow she had to find him. And soon.

CHAPTER
5

"I hope you're holding this thing steady," Violet muttered as she mounted the steps of the ladder. "I should have made you go up here instead of me."

"As you very well know, Violet, I have absolutely no head for heights." Martin's voice was muffled by the necessity of holding his chin firmly pressed to his chest in order to avoid looking up Violet's skirts.

"Well, neither do I, but sometimes we all have to do what we don't like to do." Violet reached up and tugged at the hooks fastened securely to the curtain rod. "These things are rusted. No wonder I can't get them to blinking move. I should have waited for Polly to help me."

"I always find that when something refuses to budge, a good pounding with a hammer often does the trick."

"Remind me of that the next time you take half an hour to get up from the breakfast table." Violet groaned and tugged harder. "I don't know why we have to wash
these things, anyhow. They're bound to fall apart as soon as I put them in the water. If you ask me, the Yanks will never notice if the curtains are washed or not."

"Yanks? Who is Yanks? Madam didn't tell me we were having a house guest."

"We're having more than one guest, Martin. We're having a whole crowd of them. We'll be having Americans crawling all over this house by next week."

Martin uttered a shocked cry. "When did you find out about this? Does madam know?"

"Of course she blinking knows." Violet hung onto the curtains and pulled with all her might.

"Why didn't she tell me? What are we going to do? Good Lord, woman, we're being invaded. Where are the police? Where is the army? I demand they protect us."

Doing her best to ignore Martin's ranting, Violet jerked hard on the curtains. "We're not being invaded, Martin, we—" She broke off with sharp exclamation as the curtains finally let go their death grip on the rod and parted company. Deprived of her secure hold, Violet lost her balance and had to let go of the heavy fabric to steady herself.

The curtains descended, en masse, and draped themselves lovingly on top of Martin. With an agonized scream, he started flailing wildly in a frantic attempt to escape.

"Stand still, you daft sod!" Violet yelled. "You'll have me off here." She began scrambling down the ladder, just as Martin blindly stumbled into it. The ladder rocked and then in slow motion toppled over and crashed to the ground.

Luckily for Violet, she landed on top of Martin, who momentarily stopped struggling. For one terrible moment she thought she might have killed him. She scrambled to
her feet and started tugging at the suffocating folds to free him.

"You'll never take me alive!" Martin shouted, thus immensely relieving Violet, who was already rehearsing how she'd tell Lizzie that Martin had permanently departed.

"Stand still, you old fool!" she yelled. "It's only me."

Martin, however, continued to yell and struggle, and by the time she finally got him out of his cocoon, she was exhausted.

Released from bondage, Martin stared wildly around the room. "By Jove, that was a close call." He struggled to his knees, then made a supreme effort to get back on his feet. "We have to find madam and warn her the invasion has begun."

"It's not an invasion," Violet began, but Martin didn't wait to hear the rest of her sentence.

"Come on, Violet, we have to find a place to hide before they come back." He shuffled out of the door, shouting, "Head for the hills! The invasion has begun!"

Violet closed her eyes. All this and a houseful of Yanks, too. It just didn't bear thinking about.

"I'm so glad you're home," Violet told Elizabeth. "Where have you been? I expected you ages ago."

Elizabeth peered past her into the dark shadows of the entrance hall. "Martin taking a nap?"

"Not exactly." Violet leaned against the heavy door to close it. "He's sipping on a brandy in the kitchen at the moment."

"I didn't know we had any brandy," Elizabeth said, starting for the kitchen stairs.

"One bottle. I keep it for medicinal purposes."

"What's the matter with Martin, then?"

"He found out about the Yanks coming to stay here."

Elizabeth paused halfway down the stairs. "Oh, no. How did that happen?"

"I told him, didn't I. I thought you'd already talked to him about it."

"No, I was waiting for the right time." Elizabeth glanced guiltily at the kitchen door. "I was worried it might upset him."

"Yes, you could say that. He thinks we're being invaded. I keep telling him that Yanks are not the same as the Germans, but I don't think he understands."

Elizabeth sighed and continued on down the steps. "Perhaps I should have a word with him. I might be able to calm him down."

"I bloomin' hope so. He's been carrying on something awful."

Elizabeth pushed open the kitchen door and peered in.

Martin sat at the table, his face buried in his trembling hands. He didn't even look up when she spoke his name.

Elizabeth advanced into the room and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. "Martin? Are you all right?"

"It's the end of the world as we know it," he said, his voice muffled in his palms.

"Nonsense," Elizabeth said briskly. "We're having a few house guests for a while, that's all. Nothing to be alarmed about."

Slowly he dropped his hands and peered at her over the top of his glasses. "Madam? What are you doing here?" Before she could stop him, he'd stumbled to his feet. "We must find a place to hide. This is a ghastly war. The enemy have totally surrounded the house. They tried to suffocate me. They're arriving in those infernal flying machines and are landing everywhere. Those savages can lop off your head with one blow of their swords."

"American airmen don't carry swords, Martin. You're getting them confused with someone else. I don't want you to worry about this. Violet and I can take care of everything—"

"They're just a bunch of blinking cowboys," Violet put in from the doorway.

"Cowboys?" Martin sank onto his chair again. "No, no, madam, we can't have cowboys here. We don't have enough room in the stables. There'll be horses all over the lawn. The gardener will never be able to cope. And what if they bring wild Indians with them? Dreadful savages, madam. They'll cut off all our hair."

"They'd have to find yours first," Violet said dryly. She stood just inside the door, her arms folded, her head to one side. "Barmy as a dim-witted goat, he is. I told you he'd go off the edge one day."

"He's just confused," Elizabeth said, sending Violet a warning frown. She patted Martin's shoulder. "Listen to me, Martin. Nothing bad is going to happen to any of us. There are no Germans and no enemy. Some very nice American officers are coming to stay with us for a while, that's all. I think it might be rather fun, don't you?"

"Oh, it'll be fun, all right," Violet muttered. "About as much fun as a blinking picnic in a field of angry bulls."

"Bulls? Where?" Martin demanded. "Where are they? I'll need my shotgun."

"You haven't touched a shotgun in fifty years, you silly old goat." Violet marched toward him. "Now what have I been trying to tell you? Madam has invited these gentlemen here, and she wouldn't invite savages to the house, now would she?" She sent Elizabeth a sly look. "Besides, I wouldn't be at all surprised if we don't do very well out of them Yanks. From what I hear, they can get just about everything on that base of theirs. Things
like cigarettes and chocolates and nylon stockings—"

"Violet!" Martin looked scandalized. "Not in front of madam."

"And sherry and Scotch . . . "

Martin's eyes brightened visibly. "Scotch?"

"Violet, I don't think—" Elizabeth began.

"Scotch," Violet said firmly. She threw her arms open wide. "Whole big bottles of it. As many as you want."

"Violet, perhaps we shouldn't—"

"Bottles of Scotch?" Martin straightened, the magic words apparently restoring sanity. "Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have a few cowboys around the house. As long as we keep a strict eye on them, of course, what? Can't have them rounding up John Miller's cows, now can we?"

"I don't think we should encourage him," Elizabeth murmured. "I rather imagine it's illegal for the Americans to give us any of their supplies."

"I'm sure," Violet said cheerfully. "But no one seems to mind, do they."

"Which doesn't exactly make it right."

"No worse than pinching a few extra bottles of orange juice for Betty Brown's baby, I'd say."

Elizabeth lifted her chin. "That was an emergency. The child was sick."

Violet nodded. "Tell that to the authorities."

She had no good answer to that. Instead, Elizabeth turned back to her aging butler. "Perhaps you should go to your room now, Martin, and take a nice nap. Violet will be along shortly with your dinner."

"Such as it is." Violet hurried over to the stove, where a large pot bubbled on the gas ring. "It's impossible to make a good stew these days, with what little meat they
allow us on ration. I have to doctor it up with all sorts of stuff to give it any kind of taste."