An Unmentionable Murder (4 page)

A cloudless blue sky confirmed her estimate of a nice day, and as she wheeled her motorcycle out of the stable she prayed that the rain would stay away until Martin was found. She refused to contemplate the possibility that it might already be too late to save her butler. The Manor House without Martin was simply too bleak to visualize.

 
On the outskirts of the village, the demolition team had already assembled in front of the burned-out ruins of the munitions factory. The workmen, mostly elderly or physically impaired in some way, stood around drinking hot tea from their thermos flasks and munching on slabs of bread pudding, while grumbling about the long ride from North Horsham.

A stray dog, hungry for food, circled them warily, waiting for a morsel that could be snapped up before it dropped to the ground.

The foreman, a muscular ginger-haired brute, strode around issuing orders to which no one paid attention. Only one man appeared to be working and that was the driver of the crane that carried the wrecking ball.

As the huge machine lumbered across the uneven ground, the men moved out of its way, but otherwise paid little attention to it. Their job would start once the remains of the building fell in a heap of dust and broken bricks. What had once been a promising enterprise, supplying much-needed arms and ammunition to the troops fighting abroad, would be reduced to rubble in a matter of minutes.

The first thunderous crash of the wrecking ball shook the ground, and some of the men turned their heads to watch the destruction. Again and again the ball struck, startling the crows and causing a mass exodus from the nearby trees. Even the dog abandoned its hungry vigilance and slunk away.

Dust rose in an ugly cloud above the forlorn ruins as the crane backed away, its morbid job completed. The men reluctantly put away their flasks and prepared to begin the massive cleanup.

As they moved toward the rubble the dog reappeared, darting ahead of them with its nose in the air as if chasing an enticing odor. It leapt over a pile of bricks and began scrabbling madly at a heap of mangled wood and plaster.

One of the men at the head of the group shouted, and bent to pick up a lump of plaster to throw at it. Then he paused, his arm in midair. The rest of the men crowded behind him, staring with disbelief at what the dog had uncovered.

The man in front shuddered, then said quietly, “I think we'd better get the bobbies up here quick.”

Someone else called out, “Get that flipping dog off the poor bugger.”

“Not that it matters now,” the first man muttered. “That poor sod's a goner. Looks like someone's put a bullet right through his bloody head.”

CHAPTER 3

Elizabeth arrived at the station just as Sid, George's intrepid partner, was leaving. He greeted her with his usual good humor, though she could tell he was a little put out about something.

“I take it George is inside?” she asked him, nodding at the small brick building that once housed horses and still bore the faint aroma of their presence.

“Yes, your ladyship, he is indeed,” Sid said grimly.

Being well used to the feuding between the two constables, Elizabeth refrained from asking about the problem. Both men had been retired for several years when the outbreak of war and the need for younger men in His Majesty's Service had removed the entire police force from Sitting Marsh.

George and Sid had been more or less forced out of retirement to serve their country. Neither of them was too pleased about being deprived of his former pursuits and got by expending as little energy as possible on police business. Their resentment often spilled over into personal attacks on each other, which certainly didn't help the situation.

Nevertheless, there were certain procedures that had to be followed before Elizabeth could feel justified in taking matters into her own hands, which she often did, much to the outward annoyance and secret relief of George, who more often than not was completely out of his depth.

In this case, however, she would need the full cooperation of both men if she was going to launch the extensive search for Martin she had in mind. Upon learning that Sid was on his way to the bakery to pick up pastries for himself and George, she let him go on his way and entered the gloomy confines of the police station.

George sat behind his desk, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He seemed startled to see her and hastily folded the newspaper as he greeted her. “You're out and about early this morning, your ladyship. Has Martin turned up, then?”

“No, he hasn't.” Without waiting to be invited, Elizabeth sat down on the visitor's chair. It was a particularly uncomfortable chair, and she never sat in it longer than she had to, which prompted her to come straight to the point. “I want to round up as many villagers as I can to help find Martin. I need you and Sid to help me do that as quickly as possible. The longer we delay, the worse off Martin will be when we find him.”

George's expression frightened her. “We did a pretty thorough search last night, m'm. I don't know as if he'll be all that easy to find.”

“Exactly, which is why—” She broke off with a start as the telephone on his desk jangled in her ear.

“Excuse me, your ladyship. I'd better get that.” George reached for the telephone and stuck it against his ear. His voice turned pompous when he announced, “Sitting Marsh police station here. P.C. Dalrymple speaking.”

He listened intently for a while, his expression gradually changing from slightly bored to interested to downright excited. “Very well,” he said after a lengthy pause, “I'll be there right away. Don't touch anything until the doc and I get there.” He replaced the receiver and ran a hand over his glistening bald head. “Well, I'll be blowed,” he said softly.

Watching him, Elizabeth felt annoyed that whatever message he'd received had apparently taken his concentration away from the matter at hand. “George, about Martin—”

She was rather rudely interrupted by George's raised hand. “Begging your pardon, your ladyship, but a rather important matter has come up. I'm afraid the search for your butler will have to wait.”

Bound and determined that nothing was going to stand in her way, Elizabeth leaned forward. “Nothing can possibly be as important as finding my butler quickly enough to prevent a tragedy.”

George slowly got to his feet. “Well, m'm, I don't like to disagree with you, but I reckon a tragedy has already occurred. There's a dead body up at the munitions factory and I have to get up there right away before someone messes about with the evidence.”

Shock froze Elizabeth to her chair and it was a moment or two before she could get the words out. “Who is it?”

George shrugged. “Don't know, your ladyship, do I. The men up there are from North Horsham so they wouldn't know if it was someone from the village. In any case, I shouldn't think it would be anyone from Sitting Marsh. After all, it's a couple of miles out there and who would want to be hanging around a burned-out building anyway? It's not like anyone's gone missing. . . .” His voice trailed off and his eyes widened as he stared at Elizabeth. “No,” he said, violently shaking his head. “No, it couldn't be Martin. How would he get up there?”

Elizabeth shot to her feet so fast she almost lost her balance. “I'm going with you.”

George held up his hand. “Now, now, your ladyship, you know I can't allow you to go poking around up there. Besides, it's probably some tramp got in there for shelter and passed away. Happens all the time, it does. I'll tell you soon enough if it's . . . if there's anything you should know.”

He was talking to thin air, as Elizabeth had already charged out the door without waiting to hear what else he had to say. The roar of her motorcycle almost drowned out his next words when he reached her.

“Lady Elizabeth, I have to order you—”

“I'm going up there, George. You have no right to stop me and you know it.”

Straining to be heard over the noise of the engine, George yelled, “I need to take a look before you go messing about up there!”

“Then stop screaming at me and get in the sidecar!” Elizabeth yelled back.

Just then Sid came rushing up to them, holding a paper bag bulging with Bessie's pastries. “What's the blinking fuss about?” he cried, waving the bag in the air.

“What's happened? Where are you going? You haven't had your grub yet.”

George looked longingly at the bag, then back at Elizabeth. “Go and get my helmet, Sid,” he ordered. “I'm going for a ride with her ladyship.”

Seething with impatience, her heart sick with dread, Elizabeth waited for the constable to fit his bulky body into the sidecar.

Sid rushed out and thrust the helmet at his partner, who took it and crammed it on his head.

“If I don't come back,” George told him grimly, “don't make a pig of yourself with them pastries. And read that note I left for you. It's important.”

Sid had no time to answer as Elizabeth released the brake and they were off, careening up the street at a pace that brought a shout of protest tinged with fear from George.

She ignored him, intent on getting to the factory ruins as soon as possible. Part of her refused to believe that Martin could be lying dead up there. That was the part she clung to, despite the knowledge that the coincidence was troubling.

It seemed an eternity until they reached the demolition site. Having last seen the burned-out factory at close quarters, it seemed strange to Elizabeth to see nothing but piles of rubble lying where the building once stood.

There had been talk of rebuilding it, until public protests had persuaded the city council to abandon the idea. Personally Elizabeth applauded their decision, though she felt sad that the prospect of a richer economy had been so quickly destroyed. Sitting Marsh was losing its young people at an alarming rate. The factory might have kept some of them there, had it lived up to its promise.

She brought her motorcycle to a halt amidst curious stares from the small crowd of workers huddled together at one end of the crushed building. One of them apparently recognized her and there followed a chorus of greetings which she acknowledged with a graceful wave of her hand.

She climbed from her saddle and held the machine steady while George attempted to extract his body from the sidecar. Meanwhile one man detached himself and hurried toward her. She recognized the snow-white beard and sea captain's hat immediately.

“Good morning, Captain Carbunkle!” she called out as he approached. “I've been meaning to pay you and Priscilla a visit. I trust you enjoyed your honeymoon in the Highlands?”

The captain halted in front of her and swept off his cap with a little bow. “I did indeed, madam. I'm sure Prissy would enjoy telling you all about it.” Cramming his cap back on his head, Carbunkle nodded at George, who was too busy struggling to escape the cramped innards of the sidecar to pay attention to him. Giving up, the captain turned back to Elizabeth. “Got a mess over there, I'd say. I just happened to stop by to watch them take the old wreck apart, seeing as how I was taking care of the place the night it blew up. Wanted to watch the old girl go down and pay my respects. I never expected something like this, though.”

“Of course not,” Elizabeth said, her gaze straying to the heap of rubble. “What a dreadful way to end such a noble endeavor.”

In spite of the warmth of the June sun, Carbunkle rubbed his hands together as if he were cold. “Must have been a shock for the crew, finding a stiff 'un like that.”

“Did you recognize him?” Elizabeth asked quickly.

The captain shook his head. “They wouldn't let me get close enough. Thought I'd hang around a bit, though. Might get a look at him later on. Bit of excitement does the old heart good, you know.” He turned to leave, then paused to add, “The little lady would be pleased to see you any time, your ladyship. I know she would.”

“I'll drop by at the first opportunity,” Elizabeth promised him, somewhat taken aback by his macabre enjoyment of the situation.

Turning her attention back to George, she found him still trying to extricate himself from her motorcycle. This took some considerable effort, and by the time he'd finally freed himself and straightened his helmet, the doctor's car had crept onto the site and parked alongside them.

Dr. Sheridan, the village physician and medical examiner for the local constabulary, doffed his hat and nodded at Elizabeth. Before she could return his greeting, George stepped in and announced his intention to observe the victim.

The two men marched over to the group of workers, who all began talking excitedly until George lifted his hand. “Just show us where the victim is,” he barked.

One of the men stepped forward. “He's over here, mate. The dog dug him up and we had to chase it off. Looks a right mess, he does.”

George beckoned to the doctor, and the two of them picked their way through the pile of bricks and plaster, while Elizabeth held her breath and prayed.

She watched the men bend over something at their feet; then after a while the two of them straightened. They had a quick discussion, and the group of men observing the procedure murmured anxiously among themselves. Dr. Sheridan squatted down again, and George stumbled out of the debris and walked briskly back toward her.

She could tell nothing by his expression and she wrung her hands in agonizing anticipation. No matter what he told her, she had to be brave and maintain her composure, she reminded herself. The lady of the manor never displayed her emotions in public. She must remember that at all costs.

It seemed that everything around her had frozen into silence as she waited for George to speak. The group of men made no sound, all eyes on the crouched figure of the doctor. Even the birds were hushed, and only the crunch of George's boots broke the eerie stillness.