Polly stood at the front door of the Manor House and tugged on the bell pull for the third time. She was fast losing her patience. She was dying to show her letter to Sadie, and that old fool, Martin, was taking his blinking time opening the door for her.
If the kitchen door wasn’t locked she could get in that way, which is the way she usually went in. But on Sundays Violet took the afternoon off and locked the kitchen door, so here she was, hopping up and down waiting for Martin to wake up and let her in.
She was about to hang on the bell rope again when she heard the first bolt sliding back. At last. What the bloomin’ heck had he been doing? Another bolt scraped open, then the huge iron key grated in the lock. Two more bolts to go and the latch to lift. All she could hope was that he didn’t fall asleep again before he got them all open.
At long last the door inched open a crack. Her impatience exhausted, Polly gave the door a shove. To her dismay, she heard a muffled exclamation, then a thud. The old boy must have fallen down again. He was always falling down these days. It was a wonder he didn’t break his bloomin’ neck.
She pushed the door, but it refused to budge any further. Getting anxious now, she put her mouth up to the crack. “Martin? Are you all right?”
To her relief, his crusty voice answered her. “No, I am most definitely not all right. The blessed door just attacked me.”
She sighed. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“Not at all. I bounce off doors and land flat on my back for the pure fun of it.”
“Can you get up?”
“If I could get up,” Martin said peevishly, “do you think I’d still be lying here like a beached whale? Who are you, anyway?”
“It’s Polly.” She waited, and when no response seemed forthcoming, added helpfully, “Polly Barnett.”
“I am not acquainted with Polly Barnett.”
“Yes, you are,” Polly said, rolling her eyes skyward. “I’m Lady Elizabeth’s assistant.”
“Lady Elizabeth is not at home, so she doesn’t need your assistance.”
“I didn’t come here to work.” Polly was fast losing her patience again. “I came to see Sadie.”
“Miss Buttons is finishing her chores. At least she’s supposed to be finishing her chores. Heaven knows what the dratted girl gets up to when no one is watching her. I never did trust that hussy.”
Polly pushed the door again, but Martin’s body still prevented it from opening.
Martin’s voice rose a notch. “If you’d stop hammering me with the door I might consider making an attempt to get back on to my feet.”
“Sorry.” She waited. And waited. “Are you getting up?” she asked, when there seemed no sign of movement from the other side of the door.
“In a moment. I’m studying the ceiling. I think it needs a good scrubbing.”
“Something needs a good scrubbing,” Polly muttered under her breath. Deciding that drastic measures needed to be taken, she grasped the bell rope again and gave it a hearty tug. A loud clang rang out and echoed from within the hallway.
“Who’s there?” Martin called out.
Polly rolled her eyes again and heaved a heavy sigh. “It’s still Polly Barnett.”
“Well, what are you doing dithering about out there? Come in, come in.”
“I would if I could bloody get in,” Polly muttered. She jumped as the door suddenly swung open.
Martin stood in the doorway, his half dozen silver hairs standing on end. He peered at her over the gold rims of his glasses. “Did you say something?”
“I said thank you very much, Martin.” Polly darted past him before he could delay her any longer. She heard him muttering something as she raced up the stairs to the great hall, but paid no attention. All she could think about now was showing her letter to Sadie.
She found the housemaid in the great hall. Sadie was about halfway down, dusting the suit of armor that stood between the tall windows. As Polly drew near, her feet soundless on the thick carpet, she heard Sadie talking softly to herself.
“There you go, me old matey. Now you’re all spruced up, how about giving me a ride on that white horse of yours? I could do with some excitement in me life.”
Polly grinned as she came up behind the unsuspecting girl. “You won’t get much excitement out of that lump of metal,” she said loudly.
Sadie screeched and spun around, but instead of looking at Polly, she seemed to be staring wide-eyed at something behind Polly’s back.
Remembering the ghosts that had been sighted in the great hall, Polly’s skin prickled with fear. She twisted around to look behind her, the echo of her shriek reaching the far end of the hall. All she could see were the portraits of generations of ancestors staring down from the towering walls.
“Cor blimey, Polly,” Sadie said, wiping her brow with the duster. “Whatcha go and do that for? You nearly scared me out of me knickers.”
Annoyed with herself, Polly muttered, “Well, you scared me, too. I thought you’d seen a ghost. What were you looking at, anyhow?”
“I dunno.” Sadie shook out the duster, sending a cloud of dust back over the suit of armor. “I jumped when you spoke and swung around to look. Then you screamed and made me jump again. I s’pose it’s hearing about that bloke what got murdered at the wedding. Given me the jitters, it has.”
Polly stared at her. “What bloke?”
“Brian. The bloke I told you about. The one what followed Tess down from Cambridge. They found him in the cellar. Someone stuck a knife in his chest.”
“Oh, heck!” Polly shook her head in disbelief. “How awful. Nice looking bloke he was, too. Who would do that to him?”
To Polly’s surprise, Sadie looked up and down the hall as if worried someone might be there. “Well, don’t say nothing to no one, but I think Tess might have done it. I didn’t say nothing to you before, but I saw that tart, Fiona, go into Brian’s room at the pub, and when I told Tess about it she blew her top.”
“So that’s what he did,” Polly murmured, remembering her conversation with Tess at the pub.
“I think she went after him with the knife and he fell down the cellar steps.” Sadie started dusting the armor again. “Can’t say I blame her. I’d have done the same if some bloke did that to me.”
“You’d have killed him?”
“Nah. I’d just frighten the living daylights out of the bugger.” Sadie looked at her over her shoulder. “Per’aps that’s what Tess did. Per’aps she didn’t mean to kill him. It could have been an accident.”
Polly frowned. “I can’t believe Tess would do something like that. Besides, she was talking about him down at the pub last night. I’d swear she didn’t know he was dead then.”
“Maybe she didn’t know she’d killed him until someone told her.”
“Poor Tess. She must be so frightened and upset.”
“Yeah.” Sadie gave the duster a final flourish. “Lady Elizabeth said she was in a terrible tizz.” She turned to face her friend. “Anyhow, what are you doing here on a Sunday?”
Forgetting Tess’s problems for the time being, Polly pulled the letter from her pocket and waved it in Sadie’s face. “Look what came in the post yesterday.”
Sadie took it from her and studied the envelope. “From Marlene?”
“No, silly. From a soldier. You know, the ones what wanted letters from home?”
Sadie’s face brightened. “Oh, them! You heard from one? What’s he like? I wish I’d sent one now.”
Polly stared at her in surprise. “I thought you were daffy about Joe.”
“Nah, Joe’s nice, but he’s so slow. I like ’em with a bit more pizzaaazz.”
She’d sort of drawled it and wriggled her hips, making Polly laugh. “Why don’t you write a letter then,” she said. “Come over my house tonight and we’ll write it together.”
“Great idea! I’ll be there.”
“I’ll send it to Tom and ask if he has a friend that wants to write back to you.”
“His name is Tom? Can I read it?”
Polly watched as Sadie scanned the lines Tom had written. At last she raised her head and grinned at Polly. “He sounds a right charmer, don’t he. Wonder what he looks like?”
“We’ll find out when I get his next letter.” Polly took the letter back and tucked it in her pocket. “I’m sending him a photograph of me tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. She felt a little jump of excitement. Tomorrow her letter would be on the way to Tom, and who knows what would come out of it. Now she couldn’t wait to get a letter back from him, and a photograph. If only time would go by faster. “I wish,” she said, as she walked with Sadie back to the stairs, “that I had a crystal ball that would tell me what’s going to happen in the future.”
“You’re not the only one.” Sadie paused at the top of the stairs. “And I wouldn’t mind betting that right now, Tess Winterhalter is thinking the same thing as well.”
Elizabeth stared in dismay at George’s furious face. “What, may I ask, had led you to the conclusion that Rodney Winterhalter killed Brian Sutcliffe?”
George smoothed out his glare, which had been directed at Sid, and said stiffly, “I’m not at liberty to discuss it, your ladyship. You know how it is.”
“Yes, I do know how it is.” Elizabeth tied her scarf more firmly under her chin. “I know very well that misplaced speculation can result in some unpleasant consequences. For all concerned.”
George lifted his chin. “Certain facts have come to my attention, from which I have deduced that Mr. Winterhalter had both motive and opportunity.”
“What facts?” Elizabeth demanded bluntly.
George cleared his throat. “Your ladyship-”
“I shall find out sooner or later, George. You will save us both a great deal of trouble if you simply tell me now.”
George let out his breath in frustration.
“He was seen leaving the kitchen round about the time of the murder,” Sid said.
George sent him another withering look. “Just remember he told you that, m’m. Not me.”
“Who saw Mr. Winterhalter leave the kitchen?”
“It were Nellie Smith,” George answered, beating Sid to the punch. “And that’s me last word on the subject.” He sent Sid a meaningful look. “And yours.”
“Well, thank you. Both of you.” Elizabeth straddled the saddle of her motorcycle. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have my own investigation to conduct.”
“The inspector won’t like you interfering, m’m,” George warned.
“The inspector,” Elizabeth said, rising up to kick start the engine, “will thank me when I save him, and you, George, from a grave miscarriage of justice.”
“If you find out anything, your ladyship, you’re under an obligation-”
The rest of George’s words were drowned out by the roar of the motorcycle’s engine. Smiling and waving, Elizabeth soared off down the street, narrowly missing a startled housewife scurrying across the road.
No matter what George thought, Elizabeth told herself as she rode down the hill, she would not believe Rodney had stabbed Brian Sutcliffe. He had been too distraught at the thought of his daughter possibly being involved.
Nor did she believe that Tess had killed her lover. But she intended to make quite certain of that before she tackled the other people on her list.
Arriving back at the village hall, she parked her motorcycle and cut the engine. She had taken longer than she had intended to deliver Bessie’s china to the shop. She could only hope Bessie was still inside.
To her relief, not only was Bessie still there, but several members of the Housewives League stood about, apparently finishing up the cleanup. She spotted Nellie in the group, and headed over to her, intent on speaking to the young lady before she left.
Elizabeth wasted no time in coming to the point when she drew Nellie aside. “I understand you saw Rodney Winterhalter leaving the kitchen yesterday afternoon about the time of the murder,” she said.
Nellie looked apprehensive. “I didn’t want to get no one in trouble, your ladyship, but George did ask and I had to say what I saw.”
Elizabeth nodded. “It’s all right, Nellie. What exactly did you see?”
“Well, it were a little while before all that fuss about the missing knife. I seen Mr. Winterhalter rushing out of the kitchen, and he looked really upset about something. I wondered at the time what he was doing in there, but then Florrie went in to get the knife and came running out again to say it were missing and, well, you heard the rest.”
“Did you see where Mr. Winterhalter went after he left the kitchen?”
Nellie shook her head. “I was too busy helping Florrie look for the knife.”
“Very well. Thank you, Nellie.” Elizabeth smiled at the worried-looking girl. “You did the right thing. Please don’t give it another thought.”
“Yes, m’m.” Still looking concerned, Nellie went back to join the group that was now stacking chairs against the walls.
Bessie seemed to have disappeared, and Elizabeth hurried into the kitchen, hoping to find her in there. Pleased to find her alone, Elizabeth complimented her on the fine job she had done with the wedding.
“There’s just one thing I’d like to ask you,” she said, when Bessie thanked her. “You said yesterday that you found the key to the cellar in a milk jug. Where exactly was it standing when Florrie picked it up to empty it?”
Bessie pointed to a table by the wall. “It were on there, m’m.”
Elizabeth walked over to the table, followed by an anxious Bessie. “On here?” She pointed to the table.
“Yes, m’m. Right here.” Bessie patted the table.
Elizabeth raised her gaze to the shelf above the table. “Were you using this shelf for anything yesterday?”
“No, m’m, we weren’t. It’s in an awkward spot, isn’t it. We’d have to have really long arms to reach up there across the table.”
“Which is probably why the key fell off,” Elizabeth murmured.
Bessie poked her head forward. “What did you say, your ladyship?”
“No matter.” Elizabeth looked around. “Everything looks spick and span, Bessie. You and the rest of the Housewives League provided a lovely wedding for Priscilla and Wally. I know they must be so grateful to you all.”
Bessie’s smile was radiant. “We were all happy to do it, m’m. Everyone likes Prissy, and Captain Carbunkle is a good sort. They’ll be happy together, I know.” She glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure they were alone. “Can’t imagine our Prissy having a friend like that Fiona. Not a bit alike, are they. Someone said Fiona married an old bloke for his money and when he died he left her a fortune. Bit of a fly-by-night if you ask me. I wouldn’t have thought Prissy would be that friendly with someone like that.”
Elizabeth wondered if Bessie had heard about Fiona’s indiscretion with the murdered man, but thought better about asking her. “Well, they hadn’t seen each other in thirty years. I’m sure they both must have changed in that time. Anyway, I must be off. Violet will be getting supper and I don’t want to be late. Oh, before I go, could you let me have the address of the photographer. Dickie Muggins, I believe?”
“Yes, m’m. I have it right here in my handbag. Just a minute.” Bessie bustled across the kitchen to a tall cupboard and opened it. She came bag with a large black handbag tucked under her arm. “He’s a good photographer, m’m. I’ve seen some of his photographs. Lovely they are. He’s a bit of a fusspot, and some people make fun of him for it, but he knows what he’s doing all right, I’ll say that for him.”
Thank you, Bessie.” Elizabeth took the neatly inscribed card from Bessie and tucked it in her pocket. “I’ll let you have it back next time I visit the tea shop.”
“Oh, no need, your ladyship. I have some more. Dickie’s mother gave them to me. He’s just started his business, and he’s looking for more clients. He’ll be pleased to hear from you, I’m sure.”
Elizabeth rather doubted that. She wasn’t looking to hire him, but merely ask him a few questions. She didn’t see the need to tell Bessie that, however.
She left the hall deep in thought and returned to the manor, convinced now that Tess had not killed Brian Sutcliffe. The girl had no reason to lie about leaving the key in the lock. Moreover, if she was telling the truth she’d heard Brian pounding on the door when she left, which meant he was still alive at that point.
Someone else must have removed the key from the cellar door. It seemed reasonable to assume that that person did so to delay the discovery of the body. Someone could have heard Brian pounding on the door, unlocked it, and confronted an angry man with a knife in his hand. What then? Reacted without thinking and pushed him down the stairs, causing him to fall on the knife, as Tess had surmised? Or had someone taken the opportunity to get rid of a man who was causing more trouble than was bearable?
A milk jug full of milk seemed an odd place to hide a key. But what if the killer intended to hide it on the shelf? Then, unnerved and in a hurry to leave, stretched out to reach the shelf and fumbled the key, dropping it into the milk jug. That made a lot more sense.
Tess was far too short to even think about reaching the shelf. Rodney, on the other hand, could have managed it. Rodney, who hated Brian Sutcliffe and would protect his daughter at any cost.
Seated on the white wicker couch in her conservatory, Elizabeth gave the matter some intense thought. Could she be mistaken about Rodney, after all? She kept hearing Daphne’s shocked tones when she’d heard the news. My God, Rodney. What have you done?
He had denied it, of course. But his denials, like his concern about his daughter’s possible guilt, could have been fabricated for her benefit. She would have to talk to him again. Though she could hardly accuse him of murder without some kind of proof or justification.
Sighing, she withdrew the paper she’d tucked into her pocket earlier and studied it. Neville Carbunkle had mentioned he’d seen Dickie Muggins in the kitchen arguing with Brian. She was anxious to talk to the photographer, but it would have to wait until tomorrow. Until then, she’d hold her judgment on Rodney, in the hopes that Mr. Muggins could shed new light on the puzzle.
Glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, she noticed with some surprise that it was long past the time when Violet usually rang the bell for supper. Violet was never late with the meals. Unless she was ill.
Concerned, Elizabeth rose to her feet and hurried to the kitchen. Her anxiety deepened when she opened the door and no smell of cooking greeted her. In fact, the kitchen was as neat and clean as Violet usually left it last thing at night.
Frowning, Elizabeth headed for the pantry, expecting to find her housekeeper rummaging about in there. Instead, she found Martin, in the act of helping himself to a large chunk of cheese.
He swung around as she entered and, upon seeing her, jumped so violently he almost dropped the plate he held. By some miracle he righted it before the cheese slid off and peered at her over the rims of his glasses.
“You startled me, madam. I thought it was Violet, coming back to spy on me.”
“Now why would she do that?” Elizabeth noticed the jar of pickled onions he’d taken down from the shelf. “Where is Violet, anyway? Why isn’t she cooking supper?”
“Why, indeed,” Martin said mournfully. “I asked her that very question myself.”
Elizabeth waited, until it became obvious Martin wasn’t going to continue and she was forced to ask, “So what did she say when you asked her?”
Martin placed the butcher knife he’d used on the cheese back in it’s slot on the wall. “When I asked her what, madam?”
Elizabeth reminded herself that Martin was very old, somewhat senile, and one had to use infinite patience when dealing with him. “What did Violet say when you asked her why she isn’t cooking supper?”
Martin thought about it. “Oh, yes. Now I remember. She said we were to eat the leftover stew.” He pointed to a large pot on the shelf. “I looked at it, but it’s cold. I decided I would prefer my ration of cheese and pickled onions. With buttered bread, of course.”
“We don’t have butter,” Elizabeth reminded him. “Only margarine.”
“Then I shall endeavor to do without. That dratted stuff tastes like axle grease.”
Elizabeth was inclined to agree with him. “Is Violet ill? Did she say she was going to bed?”
“No, madam.” Martin picked up the jar of pickled onions and tucked it under his arm. “She said she was going out. She asked me to serve the stew to the Winterhalters, which I did.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. In all the years she had known Violet, and that had been all her life, she had never known the housekeeper to go out on a Sunday night. Especially when they had guests in the house. In fact, Violet rarely went out at night at all, unless it was a special event, such as the wedding. “Did she say where she was going? Is she walking?”
“No, madam. She went off in one of those infernal contraptions that make all that blasted noise and belch evil-smelling smoke everywhere, poisoning the very air we breathe.”
“Do you mean a Jeep?” For the life of her, Elizabeth couldn’t imagine Violet riding in a Jeep.
“No, madam. I mean a motor car.”
Thoroughly mystified now, Elizabeth followed Martin out into the kitchen. “Who was driving it?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that, madam. I couldn’t see his face.” Martin placed his cheese and pickled onions on the table, then opened the bread bin and took out a small loaf of bread. “Would you care to join me, madam?”
Elizabeth eyed the bread and cheese. “I don’t think so, Martin. But please, don’t let my presence prevent you from enjoying your supper.”
“Very well, madam. But since you won’t be joining me, if I may, I should like to enjoy it in my own room.”
“Of course you may, Martin.”
“Thank you, madam.”
She watched him shuffle out the door, not without some difficulty since he was carrying the bread under one arm, the pickled onions under the other, and the plate of cheese balanced in between. She knew better than to offer her help, however. Martin became rather testy if there was the slightest hint he could not manage his own affairs.
She watched the door close behind him, her thoughts going back to Violet. She had not the slightest idea where her housekeeper might have gone. She could only hope that Violet was not in some kind of trouble. If so, there was nothing Elizabeth could do about it but wait for her housekeeper to return.