Manor House 01 - A Bicycle Built for Murder (7 page)

Which probably accounted for the strange odor, Elizabeth thought sourly. She dreaded to think what Violet had thrown into that pot. She was even more afraid to ask. What one didn't know these days, the better off one was.

It was much later that night when she woke up suddenly out of a bad dream. No doubt Violet's obnoxious stew, she thought as she lay staring at the dark ceiling. The concoction had been even worse than she'd anticipated. There had to be recipes out there somewhere that would make even wartime rations at least palatable. She would have to hunt some down somewhere. Maybe Winnie Pierce could help.

Thinking of Winnie gave her a pang of anxiety. She'd promised to help find Beryl, and so far she'd been no help at all. She reached out and fumbled with the switch on her bedside lamp, flooding the room with soft light.

Her handbag lay on her comfortable wicker armchair, and she emptied the contents onto her bed. A train ticket to London, a love letter, a regimental badge, and a form from the Land Army. The application hadn't been filled in. Obviously Beryl hadn't found the time or the enthusiasm to do so yet.

Staring at the assortment of objects on her pink-flowered eiderdown, Elizabeth had to admit they didn't add up to a lot. There wasn't anything there that could give her any answers. There had to be some way of finding this Robbie person.

Not that Elizabeth expected Beryl to be with him, even if she did find him. Why would Beryl leave everything behind, and her bicycle on the beach, to go off with someone she hardly knew? On the other hand, if she had
fallen over the cliffs into the sea, she would have had to plow through a tangle of barbed wire first.

The more Elizabeth thought about it, the more likely it seemed that Beryl either jumped over that cliff or was thrown from it. And while she was about it, she'd take a look at that bicycle.

A light rain sprinkled the vast lawns as she ran down the steps the next morning. The sweet fragrance of roses hung heavy in the air, and she paused to enjoy the aroma before marching to what used to be the stables, her feet in their sensible shoes crunching on the gravel.

She was dragging her motorcycle out from one of the empty stalls when Desmond, the gardener, appeared at her side. He stood twisting his cap in his hands, and his bushy white eyebrows twitched up and down in agitation.

Desmond was too old to be inducted into the army. It was Elizabeth's considered opinion that he was also too old to take care of grounds as vast as those surrounding the Manor House, but somehow he managed. She'd hired him when her regular gardener had been called up. Desmond had pleaded with her for the job, saying he'd go "starkers" if he didn't have something to do. He'd been employed as a paperhanger before the war, but no one was papering their walls anymore. Not with a war on.

Elizabeth peered at his corrugated face with some concern. "Is something wrong, Desmond?"

"Well, m'm, I don't rightly know. It were Martin what told me, and you know how Martin is. I never know if he's telling the truth or if it's all in his head, if you get my meaning."

Elizabeth knew only too well what he meant. "What did Martin tell you, then?"

"He said as how there were going to be cowboys and Indians running around here, m'm."

"Martin was mistaken, Desmond."

"Yes, m'm. I didn't think so. I mean, it would have been all right. I would have had to clean out the stables, though, for the horses and—"

"Desmond," Elizabeth said gently.

"Yes, m'm?"

"No cowboys and Indians."

"Right, m'm."

"Though we will have some American officers staying with us for a while. They shouldn't affect you, though."

"No, m'm. What about vehicles, though?"

"Vehicles?"

"Yes, m'm. Army vehicles. Don't the Americans drive them jeeps?"

"Oh, Lord, I'd forgotten about that." Elizabeth cast an anxious glance around the courtyard. "I suppose they could use this as a car park. I'll have to have a word with Major Monroe about it." Winnie's voice seemed to repeat softly in her ear.
"A gentleman whose name begins with an
M." Annoyed with herself, she said hurriedly, "I'll let you know as soon as I can, Desmond."

"Yes, m'm." Desmond touched his forehead with his fingers, then shuffled around the corner out of sight.

Determined to put her worries about the Americans out of her mind for the time being, Elizabeth took off at a smart pace and a few minutes later arrived at the Pierce cottage. The door opened the moment she knocked, and she felt awful when she saw the hope on Winnie's face.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, "no more news, I'm afraid. I would like to come in, though, if you have a minute?"

"Oh, of course, Lady Elizabeth. You're welcome anytime." Winnie managed to hide her disappointment quite
well as she led Elizabeth into the parlor. "I've just made some tea. Can I get you a cup?"

"Thank you, but I just finished breakfast a short time ago." Elizabeth dropped her handbag on the sofa. "I was wondering if the police brought back Beryl's bicycle."

"Yes, m'm, George walked it up the hill. Can't ride it, of course, until I get the wheel mended. It's outside in the garden."

Elizabeth followed her out of the back door where a tangled mass of white daises and marigolds lined a pebble path that led to a tool shed at the bottom of the garden. An aging apple tree spread gnarled and twisted branches over a small lawn, where plaster elves lurked around a stone birdbath.

Elizabeth, as always, was enchanted by the delightful confusion of the typical English garden. Sometimes the pristine flower beds and smooth lawns of the mansion irked her, mocking her with their smug perfection in a chaotic world. It seemed wrong, somehow, to spend so much time weeding and pruning flower beds, when elsewhere homes and everything in them were being blown to smithereens.

The front wheel of Beryl's bicycle was badly mangled, though the basket had remained intact. As George Dalrymple had observed, it was possible the damage had been done by the force of the sea. Though judging by the dents in the frame, the fall from the cliff seemed more likely.

The small leather pouch behind the saddle was still intact. Elizabeth studied it for a moment. "Was there anything in the saddlebag?"

"I don't know," Winnie said, sounding a little agitated. "I never gave it a thought. I don't know if George looked in there. He never said—" She broke off as Elizabeth
undid the flaps and drew out a thickly folded sheet of paper. "Whatever's that?"

"It's a map." Elizabeth unfolded the large piece of paper and studied it. "Oh, isn't this interesting. It's a map of America."

"What?" Winnie peered over her shoulder. "Why, that little cow. I strictly forbade her to go anywhere near that American base."

"Well, I don't know if she went to the base or not," Elizabeth said, turning the map over to look at the back of it. "One thing I do know. This map came from there. Look, it has the price in cents."

"You think someone gave it to her?" Winnie's eyes widened. "An American? Don't tell me our Beryl has run off with a bloody Yank."

If she did
, Elizabeth thought unhappily,
she went without her clothes and her handbag. And the love letter she'd tucked so carefully inside her pillow
. Much as she hated to admit it, she had a nasty feeling that Beryl hadn't run anywhere.

She stared at the map, thinking about that letter. Could Robbie be an American? If so, where did the regimental badge on Beryl's blazer come from? That most certainly belonged to a British soldier.

"I don't know what our Stan will say if Beryl's gone off with a Yank," Winnie muttered. "How am I going to tell him that? He'll have a fit."

Sensing that Winnie was clinging to that faint hope rather than contemplate the fact that Beryl might not be alive, Elizabeth made no comment. "I really should be running along," she said instead. "Would you mind if I take the map with me?" Not that she really expected it to be any more help than the rest of Beryl's belongings, but it seemed prudent to add it to the collection.

Winnie accompanied her on the path around the cottage to the front gate. "Are you sure you won't stop for a cup of tea?" she asked as she unhooked the latch. "I don't feel right sending you off without anything."

Elizabeth was about to reassure her when she saw the sturdy figure of Police Constable George Dalrymple, wearing his official helmet, winding his way on his bicycle around the bend in the lane. A sense of foreboding made her go cold. Maybe he was coming to give Winnie good news, she told herself, though now that she could see his grim expression, somehow she didn't think so.

Her own face must have given away her thoughts. Winnie turned sharply and clutched the collar of her cotton dress when she saw the constable wavering toward them. "Oh, please, God, no," she whispered.

George braked and steadied himself with a foot braced either side. After what seemed an eternity, he swung his leg awkwardly over the back of the saddle. With slow, deliberate movements that seemed to jar every nerve in Elizabeth's body, he leaned the bicycle against the hedge.

Winnie, apparently forgetting who she was with, clutched Elizabeth's arm with a painful grip. She stared at the constable, her pinched lips moving, though not a sound emerged from them.

George tipped his helmet at Elizabeth, then pulled a notepad from his breast pocket. For a moment it seemed as if the entire world were holding its breath. Not a whisper of a breeze sang among the branches of the ancient oak in front of the house. Even the birds appeared to have ceased chirping.

George loudly cleared his throat, then started to intone the dreaded words Elizabeth had been more or less expecting to hear ever since that battered bicycle had been found on the beach.

"Mrs. Pierce, I'm sorry to inform you that the body of your daughter, Beryl Anne Pierce—"

Elizabeth's heart sank. Her worst fears had been realized.

CHAPTER
6

George paused as a wretched cry tore from Winnie's lips. When he continued, his voice betrayed his deep sorrow.

"Beryl Pierce was discovered on the beach early this morning. She was deceased and presumed to have drowned. Please accept my sincere condolences."

Winnie's knees buckled, and Elizabeth caught hold of the distraught woman's arm. "Help me, George. Let's get her in the house."

George made a clumsy grab at Winnie's other arm, and between them they half carried her into the parlor, where she fell onto the sofa and gave herself up to deep, heart-wrenching sobs.

"Brandy," Elizabeth said briskly. "That's what she needs. Look in the cupboards, George, and see if you can find some."

"Haven't seen brandy in months," George muttered,
but he ambled obediently into the kitchen and began opening and shutting cupboards.

Winnie rocked to and fro on the sofa, unheeding of Elizabeth's attempts to calm her. "What am I going to do?" she wailed. "She was my only one and now she's gone."

There were no words in Elizabeth's mind that could possibly comfort the poor woman right then. All she could do was pat a shuddering shoulder and repeat over and over again, "I'm sorry, Winnie. I'm so dreadfully sorry."

George came back carrying a bottle half filled with golden liquid. "Seems like everyone has brandy in the house except me," he grumbled.

"That's because everyone keeps it for medicinal purposes and doesn't consume it the moment they get their hands on it," Elizabeth said tartly. "Did you bring a glass?"

George plodded back to the kitchen and returned a moment later with a beer mug. "All I could find."

"It will have to do." Elizabeth poured a small measure of the brandy into the mug and held it to Winnie's lips. "Here, Winnie, drink this."

Winnie shook her head, still rocking back and forth, though her sobs seemed a little quieter.

"I should be getting along," George said, edging toward the door. "They'll be needing me down at the station. The medical examiner will be arriving shortly—"

Elizabeth cut him off before he could say anything that would further upset the weeping woman. "That's all right, George. I can manage from here. I assume Lieutenant Pierce will be informed?"

"Yes, m'm. It's already been taken care of."

"Thank you, George." She offered the mug to Winnie again. "Please drink this, my dear. It will make you feel a little calmer."

This time Winnie obediently sipped the burning liquid, shuddering as she swallowed.

George hesitated a moment longer, then let himself quietly out of the house.

Alone with the grieving mother, Elizabeth did her best to think of something to say that wouldn't sound trite.

"She didn't fall off that cliff," Winnie said distinctly.

"Now, now, try not to dwell too much on it," Elizabeth said uneasily. "I think we should wait until the doctor's report before we start making accusations. After all, we don't really know what happened yet, do we?"

"Nor are we likely to, not with those blinking fools in charge of the investigation. George and Sid will just put it down to an accident and forget about it. Neither one of them wants to be bothered with police work. You know that, m'm, just as well as I do."

Elizabeth was inclined to agree, but she refrained from saying so. "I'm sure they'll do their best, Winnie."

"It won't be good enough." Winnie reached out for Elizabeth's hand and clutched it tightly. "My Beryl has been riding back and forth along that road since she was six years old. She knew it as well as she knew her own hand. She wouldn't have gone anywhere near that barbed wire. One of her friends got cut on it once, and the bleeding wouldn't stop for hours. She was afraid of it."

As if suddenly realizing whom she was grasping, Winnie hastily let go of Elizabeth's hand. "Please, Lady Elizabeth, I know it's a lot to ask, but I don't have anyone else to turn to. Please find out what happened to my little girl. If someone did this to her, I want him found and punished. I shan't rest easy until I know what happened."

Neither would she now, Elizabeth thought grimly. "I don't know how much help I can be, Winnie, but I'll do my very best to find out what happened. That's all I can promise."