“Madam will be entertaining a guest in the dining room for dinner tonight,” Violet told Martin, in the vague hope that he would contribute something useful to the occasion.
Martin looked up from his seat at the kitchen table. “Not before time. We haven’t had any guests in the dining room for years.”
“Not since the master and his wife have been gone.” Violet took down a crystal glass from the cupboard above the gas stove. “It will be nice to use the good china again.”
“It will be most satisfying to see madam seated in her rightful position at the dining room table.” Martin reached for the newspaper and folded it neatly. “I do not feel comfortable when she sits with us here in the kitchen. Her father would be most displeased.”
Violet finished polishing the glass before answering him. “I’m afraid he’d be displeased about a good many things. Thank Gawd he’s in his grave and can’t see what’s going on in this house.”
“Ah, but that’s just it.” Martin began rising to his feet. It was a long and tedious process, irritating to watch. Violet turned her back on him, but even so, she had seen the performance so many times she could picture it in her mind.
Slap. That was Martin’s hands hitting the table, palms down. The chair creaked when its feet scraped across the floor. It creaked again when his backside rose a few inches then plopped back on the seat.
Violet waited, counting the three groans that accompanied his attempts to push himself upright. Finally, when she heard the air rush out of his lungs in a heavy sigh, she knew he was on his feet and resting heavily on his hands. One more groan and he would be mobile again.
“That’s just what?” she demanded, wondering why she bothered. Martin’s comments were at best meaningless, and at worst maddeningly mysterious.
“I beg your pardon?”
Violet turned to find him peering at her over the top of his glasses. Both she and Lizzie had long ago given up explaining to the silly old fool that he’d see a lot better if he’d just look through the lenses instead of over them. As it was, for all the good they did him perched on the end of his nose like that, he might just as well put them on a cow. “You said ‘that’s just it.’”
“I did?” Martin’s white eyebrows met over the bridge of his specs. “What was I talking about?”
“How the blazes should I know?” Violet flapped her cloth at him. “I never know what you’re talking about, do I. You’re always muttering about something or other that doesn’t make any sense.”
Martin drew himself up as straight as his bowed shoulders would allow. “I might not make any sense to you, Violet, but I make perfect sense to myself.”
He was probably right at that, Violet thought grimly. “Well, we have to get the dining room table set for dinner. See if you can find Polly and tell her I’ll need her help tonight. She can stay late for a change. With all this talk of murder, I forgot to tell her about it when I saw her.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Her concern was well founded.
Martin clutched his chest in the region of his heart and staggered. “Murder? Where? Here? No! When? Who? Who? Who?”
“For Gawd’s sake, Martin, stop hooting like a bloody owl. It wasn’t anyone we know, so you can just forget about it.”
“Forget about it?” Martin ran a hand over his sparse wisps of hair. “Forget we have a murderer running around? We could all be slaughtered in our beds. Where is madam? It’s not safe for her to be running around on her own like this. In my day young women were chaperoned everywhere.”
“In my day, too.” Deciding that he’d survived the shock, she took down another glass from the cupboard. “But things change, Martin, and we have to change with them.”
“Not me,” Martin declared stoutly. “I’m too old to change.”
“If you ask me, you’re too bloody old to breathe,” Violet said crisply. “But that doesn’t stop you trying. Now get on with you and see if you can find Polly.”
“Very well, but it wouldn’t hurt you to say please once in a while.”
“Please.” She watched him shuffle toward the door an inch at a time.
He was almost there when he paused and slowly edged his body around to face her again. “Was it one of those blasted Americans?”
She blinked. “What?”
“The person who was prematurely deprived of his life.”
Irritated by his annoying habit of talking like a dictionary, Violet’s voice rose a notch. “No, it wasn’t. So stop worrying about it.”
“Violet, I shall worry about it if I so wish. I demand to know who is the unfortunate victim of this abominable crime.”
Giving up, Violet shrugged. “It was one of them land girls, that’s who. Someone found her body in the woods. Mind you, the way some of them run around flaunting themselves, it’s no wonder one of them came to a bad end.”
“Oh, my, oh, my.” Martin shook his head so hard his specs slid off. More by luck than judgement, he caught them before they fell to the floor and stuck them back on his nose. “Well, at least it didn’t happen here at the manor. I did wonder if perhaps the master had a hand in it.”
“A hand in what?”
“The murder.” Martin swayed forward on his feet and touched his lips with a withered finger. “He doesn’t like them, you know.”
Violet crossed her arms and tipped her head to one side. “The master’s dead, Martin. Killed by a bomb in London. Blown to bloomin’ bits, you might say. They buried what was left of him in the churchyard. You were there. Even if he had risen from the dead, he’d be walking around without a head, so you wouldn’t be able to bloody recognize him if you saw him.”
Martin turned pale. “I say! Steady on, Violet. That’s a ghastly thing to say about the master. He hasn’t lost his head at all. I saw him this morning, walking along the great hall, and his head was right where it should be.”
“Well, it’s too bad yours isn’t,” Violet snapped, having reached the end of her patience. “Now, are you going to stop all this silly blabbering about ghosts and find Polly for me, or do I have to find her myself?”
Martin sniffed. “There’s no need to take that tone of voice with me. I’m quite capable of finding the wretched girl. Though what good it will do I can’t imagine. She spends more time gazing at herself in mirrors than taking care of her duties.”
And that, Violet thought as she watched Martin shuffle out the door, was the most intelligent thing he’d said that morning.
Elizabeth crossed the barnyard and headed for the stables. Since Maurice wasn’t in the fields, he was probably mucking out the stalls. There was no sign of him there, however, and she wondered if he’d gone back to the house for an early dinner. She was on her way back there when she spotted him over in the paddock, sitting on the top fence with his back to her.
The long grass muffled her footsteps as she approached. Not wanting to startle him, she called him by name, but he gave no sign of having heard her. Even when she reached his side and gently touched his arm, he remained as still as a rock.
After a moment she opened the gate and walked inside the large fenced area, where several carthorses grazed while they waited for their turn in the fields. Ignoring them, she paused in front of Maurice. He sat staring in the direction of the woods, his gaunt features calm with his usual blank expression.
“Maurice?” Elizabeth waved a hand in front of him. “I’d like to talk to you. I want you to tell me about Amelia.” She watched him closely, but not a flicker of emotion touched his pallid face. His hands, however, clenched in tight fists, and she knew that he’d been told the sad news.
She tried again. “I know Amelia was a special friend. I’m so very sorry. It must hurt a lot.”
The passive mask remained unbroken.
“Maurice, I know you don’t want to talk about it. But people are gossiping, and we have to find out the truth, or innocent people could get hurt very badly. You might be able to help me if you can tell me what you know.”
She stared into his empty eyes, searching for a sign that he understood. She’d seen him so often talking to the horses, cows, and pigs, whispering in their ears, gentling them with his large, clumsy hands. Once she had found him crouched over a wounded bird, tears coursing down his face as he tried to pick up the poor thing. Nothing in the world could convince her that this gentle, caring person could attack an innocent young woman and hack open her head. He just wasn’t capable of such violence.
“I’ll find out who did it, Maurice,” she said quietly. “I’ll find him and I promise you I’ll see he’s punished.”
She turned to go, but not before she’d seen a single tear squeeze out of the boy’s eye and roll slowly, unheeded, down his cheek. Disturbed by the image, she made her way back to the house.
Sheila greeted her at the door, her face flushed and agitated. “Did you find out anything?” she demanded before Elizabeth could speak. “I saw you talking to Maurice. What did he say? He’s upset by all this. He liked Amelia. He doesn’t understand what happened.”
“I believe he understands more than you think,” Elizabeth said quietly. “I just wanted to warn you that P.C. Dalrymple might want to question Maurice. I think you should prepare him for that.”
Apprehension burned in Sheila’s eyes. “I’ll do the best I can. I can’t believe the police would go bothering my son. He doesn’t know anything about it.”
“They have to follow procedures,” Elizabeth said, echoing George Dalrymple’s favorite comment.
“Everyone knows that Nazi pilot killed poor Amelia. If George had an ounce of sense in that thick noggin of his, he’d be out looking for him in the woods, instead of upsetting everyone out here. What did the girls tell you, anyhow? Nothing, I bet. Nobody knows anything.” Sheila appeared to make a great effort to calm her angry torrent of words. “Begging your pardon, m’m, but it makes me cross when the police don’t do their job right.”
“Well, I’m sure they’ll do their best,” Elizabeth said cheerfully.
A shout from across the yard turned her head. Maisie stood a few yards away, waving a spade in the air. “I found it, Mrs. Macclesby. All nice and clean. Thank you!”
Sheila stared at Maisie as the girl tramped across the yard, carrying the spade over her shoulder. “I never know what these modern girls are going on about half the time,” she muttered.
“Well,” Elizabeth said, “I’ll be leaving you alone now to get on with your work.”
“Thank you, Lady Elizabeth.” For the first time that day Sheila Macclesby managed a weak smile. “I appreciate you bringing the sad news to me.”
“And I appreciate you allowing me to talk to the land girls.” Elizabeth turned away, then paused. “You were right, of course. They knew nothing.”
“I knew they didn’t, m’m. It’s like I said. It was that Nazi pilot. Everyone knows that.”
Not everyone, Elizabeth thought as she made her way back to her motorcycle. The land girls were all convinced Maurice had killed Amelia. Not one of them had seemed particularly sad about it. In fact, so far Maurice was the only one who had shed a genuine tear over the young woman’s death.
Elizabeth climbed aboard her motorcycle and bounced on the kick start. The engine fired, and she rumbled out of the farmyard and onto the road, turning over in her mind what she had learned that day.
Much as the land girls disliked the deceased woman, she didn’t think any of them were responsible for her murder. Pauline seemed to have the sole motive, but according to the other two girls, she hadn’t left her bed that night. That left Maurice and the German pilot with a motive for murder. There was one other person, however, who could have been responsible for Amelia’s death-Lieutenant Jeff Thomas.
Right then, he seemed the most likely candidate, since she found it so hard to believe that the other two were capable of such a violent crime. Then again, it was all too easy to jump to conclusions.
Maybe she was too ready to believe the best of people. That had certainly been her downfall in her disastrous marriage. What she was certain of was that this detective business was a lot more complicated than she’d realized. No wonder George and Sid had so much trouble with it.
Speaking of whom, she reminded herself, she needed to talk to the constables and ask them to talk to Jeff Thomas. He was apparently the last person to see Amelia alive. Since it appeared he had been quarreling with her that night, he was most certainly at the top of the list of suspects. Unfortunately her connections did not stretch to His Majesty’s service, and she could hardly go waltzing into an army camp demanding to speak to one of their soldiers. She’d have to leave that to the constables and hope they did their job.
In the meantime, there was the little matter of dinner with Major Monroe to deal with, and it would take her an entire afternoon to find a suitable dress to wear in her eclectic wardrobe.
Her spirits rising, Elizabeth sailed grandly down the High Street of Sitting Marsh on the saddle, acknowledging the friendly waves of the villagers with her usual graceful salute, carefully copied from the matriarch of the royal family. Image was everything, after all.
Martin took forever to open the door to her urgent summons when she reached home. By the time he’d finally dragged the door open wide enough for her to pass through, she was seething with impatience.
His look of alarm when he saw her alerted her to the fact that something had upset him-an event that seemed to be occurring with alarming frequency these days.
“Thank heaven you are home, madam,” he spluttered. “I was beginning to fear for your very life. Violet tells me there is a filthy scoundrel loose in the woods. Murdered a field girl… or farm girl… or something.”
Violet, Elizabeth thought darkly, talked too much. “It’s all right, Martin. As you can see, I’m perfectly all right. But thank you for worrying about me.”
“I shall always worry about you, madam. No matter what Violet tells me to do. Or not to do.”
Wondering what that was about, Elizabeth left him muttering to himself and headed down to the kitchen, from where an appetizing fragrance wafted up the stairs.
Violet stood at the stove, busily stirring something in a pot. She twisted her head around when Elizabeth walked in. “Oh, there you are, Lizzie. I was wondering when you’d get back. Martin has been driving me batty with his dithering. Kept telling me you’d been murdered.”
“I wish you hadn’t told him,” Elizabeth said mildly. “You know how easily he’s upset.”
Violet sniffed. “Better he heard it from me than from someone else. He’s going quite dotty lately. He’s convinced that the master’s ghost is roaming the halls. Hope he doesn’t tell the Yanks that.”
“I don’t think they’ll pay much attention to him.” Elizabeth glanced at the clock. “What are you cooking?”
“Tomato soup. Got a new loaf of crusty bread from Bessie’s Bake Shop to go with it.”
“Wonderful!” Elizabeth sank onto a chair at the table. “I’m absolutely starving. How is Bessie? Is she still doing a good business in the tearoom? I haven’t been down there in weeks.”
“She’s doing better now that the Yanks are here.” Violet stirred the soup one more time, then turned off the gas flame beneath it. “The shop was full of them. Though mind you, I think they help her out with sugar and flour from the base. She even had two dozen eggs in the pantry. Bet they didn’t come from Bodkins.”
“I’m sure she has special rations for her business,” Elizabeth said, determined not to be drawn into another argument about accepting gifts from the Americans.
Violet poured the steaming soup into two bowls and set one of them in front of Elizabeth. “So what happened down at the police station? Have they caught that bloody German yet? I saw Rita down at the bakery. She’s getting her troops together to go and hunt for him.”
Alarmed, Elizabeth paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth. “I certainly hope she does no such thing. Does she have any idea how dangerous that can be?”
“I would think if she knows that Nazi killed someone she’d also have the sense to know he isn’t going to play Ring around the Rosie with them.”
“I was thinking more of it being dangerous for the German.”
Violet grinned. “You might have something there. You know there’s no stopping Rita once she’s got a bee in her bonnet about something. She’s all set to go after that poor blighter. Heaven help him if she catches up with him.”
“It’s unlikely she will. I understand from George that soldiers from the army camp are hunting for him. I just hope that they don’t run into Rita and her motley crew of housewives.”
“I wouldn’t like to bet on who comes out best of that battle.”
Elizabeth sipped at her soup, then lowered her spoon. “This is very good, Violet.”
The housekeeper tipped her head to one side. “You haven’t told me how you got on at the police station.”
Having failed in her attempt to change the subject, Elizabeth laid down her spoon. “I don’t think the constables have any real proof that the German pilot was responsible for the murder. They say she was killed with an axe, but they haven’t found it yet, so they don’t really know any more than I do.”
“Those nitwits never know what they’re doing, anyway. That’s what you get when you drag two blokes out of retirement like that. They forget everything they ever learned, and their feeble minds can’t learn it again.”
“They are doing the best they can under the circumstances. While I acknowledge that the German must be caught and put under guard, I have the feeling that the constables are looking in the wrong place for their murderer.”
“You mean he’s not in the woods?”
“I mean I don’t think he’s necessarily the murderer.”
“Go on!” Violet brought her soup to the table and sat down. “Well, if you don’t think the German killed that poor girl, then who did? Maybe it was one of the Yanks this time.”
Elizabeth jerked up her chin. “I don’t want to hear you repeat that to anyone else,” she said sharply. “Rumors are flying around as it is, and I won’t have the Americans blamed for everything that goes wrong in Sitting Marsh.”
Violet looked unabashed by her attack. “All right, Lizzie, keep your hair on. I was just thinking aloud.”
“I’d rather you kept that kind of thought to yourself.”
Violet leaned forward and peered into her face. “Getting nervous about our dinner tonight, are we?”
“No, of course not.” Elizabeth broke off a piece of bread and dropped it into her soup. “I’ve told you, this is a business dinner. And if you try to make anything else of it, Violet, I shall be unforgivably rude.”
“Seems to me,” Violet said quietly, “that you’re already making a lot out of it. Just be careful, Lizzie. A lot of hearts get broken during wartime. It happens all the time.”
Elizabeth chose not to answer. The warning went deep, however, and she could not ignore its message. No matter how much she tried.