Berried Alive (Manor House Mystery) (3 page)

"Magazines," Marge announced. "When they've finished reading them they can use them to wipe their bums."

Shrieks of laughter greeted this brilliant idea.

"Quiet!" Rita thundered. She waited for the din to die down before adding, "Actually, Marjorie, that is quite a good idea. I'm sure our sailors would appreciate something to read."

"Socks!" someone else called out.

"Comics!"

"Safety pins!"

"Sticking plasters!"

"Bootlaces!"

Rita nodded after each suggestion, scribbling like mad to keep up.

"Combinations!" Maisie blurted out, apparently determined not to be outdone.

Rita narrowed her eyes amid the howls of laughter. She kept a scowl on her face until the last snicker had died down, then said icily, "This is a scavenger hunt, Maisie. The idea of a scavenger hunt is to find stuff that's just lying around that nobody wants. Or by asking people to donate things. Somehow I don't think you're going to find too many men willing to part with their underwear."

"Not clean ones, anyway," someone muttered.

Jeers of disgust threatened to drown out Rita as she attempted to keep order. Sometimes she wondered why she bothered with them. Nobody appreciated the work she did for the War Effort. Nobody. One day she'd really make them sit up and take notice. It was her dream, to become a national hero on the home front. It was all she thought about these days. The trouble was, she hadn't yet worked out how she was going to go about it. But one day she would. One fine day.

"I'm fed up." Polly slumped on the bed next to her sister, making her bounce up and down. "I hate Sundays. There's nothing to do."

Marlene tucked whatever she was reading under her pillow. "There's lots to do. You just have to look for it, that's all."

"Like what?" Polly stretched her legs out in front of her and studied her bare feet. Her toenails needed cutting. She'd love to paint them bright red, like she'd seen in the fashion magazines, but Ma would have a pink fit. Only tarts painted their toenails, she'd say.

"I dunno. Lots of things."

"All the shops are shut," Polly complained. "Even in
North Horsham. You'd think they'd open up shops on a Sunday there. After all, it's a pretty big town compared to Sitting Marsh."

"Anywhere's bigger than Sitting Marsh. Anyway, even in London they don't open up the shops on Sunday." Marlene tossed her thick mane of hair back from her shoulders.

Polly scowled. Marlene was always showing off with her hair. Marlene's hair was naturally curly and a lovely shade of auburn, while Polly had to make do with dark brown hair that hung flat and straight, unless she wound it up in a knot. Of course, being a hairdresser, Marlene knew how to make the best of her hair. It wasn't fair.

Aware that her bad mood was due more to boredom than animosity toward her sister, Polly made an effort to be pleasant. "We could always go to the flicks in North Horsham, though I've seen
The Philadelphia Story
three times already, and there's a war film on at the Odeon. I don't like war films much."

"I was thinking of going down the Tudor Arms tonight." Marlene got off the bed and sat down at her dresser. "Want to go with me?"

Polly hesitated. "I don't know. I don't like going down there without Sam."

Marlene picked up a brush and started smoothing it over her hair. "You can't waste your life sitting around moping about Sam Cutter. He's a Yank, after all. One day he'll be going back to America and then you won't see him at all. Forget about him. There's plenty more fish in the ocean."

"I'll never forget him," Polly said fiercely. "Never. I'm going to marry him one day and go to America with him. So there!"

Marlene put down her brush and twisted around in her chair. "Polly, just forget it. It's over between you and Sam
and the sooner you accept it the sooner you'll find someone else."

"I don't want no one else. Sam's the only one I want." Angry with her sister for not understanding, she slid off the bed. "I'll wait for him forever if I have to."

"Then you'll end up a bloody old maid." Marlene went back to brushing her hair. "Anyway, come down the pub with me tonight. It'll take your mind off him. We can ask Sadie to come, too. It's talent night, so it should be a laugh."

"All right. It's better than sitting with Ma listening to the wireless all night." Polly reached for the pillow. "What were you reading, anyhow?"

"Never you mind!" Moving so fast she startled her sister, Marlene grabbed the pillow and slapped it back on the bed. "It's just a magazine, that's all and I'm not done with it yet."

"All right, keep your bloomin' hair on." Polly sauntered over to the door. "I'm going up to the Manor House to ask Sadie about coming out tonight. She's probably finished her jobs by now."

Marlene stared at her sister's reflection in the mirror. "You're not going to chase after Sam Cutter while you're there, are you?"

" 'Course not!" Polly tossed her head. "I've got more pride than that, haven't I?"

"Good. I should bloomin' hope so."

"If I see him though, I'll say hello."

"Polly—"

"And invite him down the pub tonight." With a grin Polly slammed the door shut before Marlene could yell at her again.

Her sister meant well, Polly knew that. Marlene just
didn't understand. That was all. Marlene's heart had been broken a lot lately, what with her American boyfriend getting killed and then that newspaper reporter from London going back to his job. Marlene was just looking out for her baby sister.

Except, Polly thought, as she ran down the stairs, it was time Marlene realized that her sister wasn't a baby anymore. She was sixteen years old. Old enough to be in love. Old enough to get married. Certainly old enough to know the right man when she met him. She and Sam were meant to be together, and that's all there was to it. And one day Sam Cutter would realize it, too. Having settled that in her mind, she hurried down the garden path to the shed to get her bike.

True to her promise, Elizabeth decided to pay a visit to the Tudor Arms later that afternoon. Opening hours weren't until seven
P.M.
, but she knew Alfie, the barman, would be there, washing glasses and priming the pumps for the evening rush.

She preferred not to be in the pub when it was full of customers. For one thing, it was quite difficult to hold onto Alfie's attention when he was busy serving drinks, and for another, she still didn't feel comfortable visiting the Tudor Arms unescorted.

Things had changed considerably since the outbreak of the war, and with women taking up so many positions in factories, farms, and various other employment formally held by the men, it was no longer considered bad form for a woman to be seen drinking in a public house without the benefit of a male escort.

Nevertheless, in spite of Elizabeth's streak of rebellion where old-fashioned virtues were concerned, she couldn't
forget she had a position to uphold and an image to protect at all costs. Therefore, whenever possible, she observed the rules of etiquette as befitted her station.

Besides, on the rare occasion she had visited the pub during opening hours she'd been propositioned by an American airman and had to put him in his place. While secretly flattered by the attention from such a young man, she had deemed it unwise to repeat the experience.

Alfie seemed happy to see her when he answered her knock on the back door. "Your ladyship!" he exclaimed, as he held the door wide. "It's been a while since we've seen you. What brings you down here today?"

She followed him into the private lounge, bypassing the public bar, which even in these modern times was generally considered off limits to women. A strong smell of beer and cigar smoke permeated the place, almost masking the damp, musty odor that always accompanied an establishment as old as the Tudor Arms.

There were rumors that among the distinguished guests residing at the inn during its centuries of existence had been the Duke of Wellington and Edward VII, the notorious playboy king. Elizabeth could therefore vindicate any lapse in protocol by assuring herself she was, indeed, in illustrious company.

Alfie offered her the usual glass of sherry, and she graciously accepted. These days good sherry was hard to come by, and she rarely refused such a treat. After exchanging a few pleasantries, Elizabeth decided it was time to come down to business.

Seated at the long, curved bar, where gentlemen had been resting their elbows for more than four hundred years, she watched Alfie polish the glass tankards that would soon be filled with foaming ale and stout. "I trust
you've been keeping well, then?" she asked, as Alfie deftly hung a tankard on a hook above his head. "I've been hearing about a mysterious illness going around. I hope it hasn't affected any of your customers?"

Alfie went on polishing the next glass, conveniently pretending he didn't know she was fishing for information. "Not as far as I know, m'm. Nasty business that, what with them dying and all."

"Indeed." Elizabeth sipped delicately at her sherry. "How tragic for their families to lose them that way."

Alfie glanced over at the door as if expecting someone to come through it any minute. Then he leaned across the counter and in a low voice muttered, "That's if they did die from an illness. The Yanks could just be saying that to cover up the real reason. If you ask me, it's them three musketeers getting up to their tricks again. Only this time they might have gone a bit too far."

Elizabeth stared at him in astonishment. "Three musketeers? I thought they died centuries ago. Whatever are you talking about?"

"Not what." Alfie put a finger alongside his nose. "Who. And they're very much alive. That's what people call them—the three musketeers. Come down from London now and again. Don't know if there's really three of 'em, or if there's more, but they're a nasty bit of work. Got it in for the Yanks, they have, and spend their time doing their best to antagonize 'em. Up until now it's been pretty harmless, though they've been known to do some damage to their Jeeps in the past."

"You think these people are poisoning the Americans?"

It was Alfie's turn to look startled. "Who said anything about poison?"

Inwardly cursing her runaway tongue, Elizabeth said
carelessly, "Oh, it was just a rumor I heard. Someone said the men who died might have had food poisoning."

"Well, they didn't get it in here. I eat here all the time and I'd have been sick too if our food was bad." He nodded at a jar of pickled eggs on the counter. "That's what most of 'em eat down here, that and crisps. Sometimes we have sausage rolls, but what with the rationing and all, we don't get them very often anymore."

"But what about these people you call musketeers? Do they ever come in here?"

"Nah." Alfie rubbed his cloth vigorously against the side of a gleaming tankard. "No one has seen them. Don't even know what they look like. They leave their mark behind, though, wherever they go. Three Ms, all linked together. That's how they got the name of the three musketeers."

A harsh male voice spoke from behind Elizabeth, startling her. "If you ask me, they are doing us all a big favor."

Alfie nodded at the newcomer, who had entered silently through the main door. "Evening, Dick." He tipped his head at Elizabeth. "This is Lady Elizabeth, from the Manor House on the hill. Dick Adelaide, your ladyship. He bought the dairy farm out on the coast road a few months ago."

"Oh, yes," Elizabeth murmured. "I heard it had been sold. I've been meaning to come down and visit your wife."

The bearded man touched the brim of his cap. "Your ladyship. Pleasure to meet you, m'm."

"Likewise, I'm sure."

Elizabeth watched as the burly farmer handed over a large basket that appeared to be filled with slabs of butter and cheese as well as a dozen or so eggs. His clothes
reeked of tobacco smoke, and something else she didn't want to think about.

"There you go, mate!" he said, as Alfie took the basket from him. "That should do you for a while."

Alfie disappeared for a moment behind the counter, then reappeared holding two bottles of Scotch. "Better put these under your coat," he said, handing them to Dick. "We don't want to start a rumble."

The farmer gave Elizabeth a sheepish smile. "Seems there's better things to fight about than a couple of bottles of Scotch, don't it?"

"Indeed." Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. "What did you mean just now, about people doing everyone a favor?"

Alfie loudly cleared his throat, but Dick Adelaide seemed oblivious to the apparent warning. "Well, I think the sooner we get rid of them blasted Americans, the better," he said gruffly. "I don't care how they do it. If it takes a gang of hooligans to get them out of town, then so good."

"So you think we can win this war without them, then," Elizabeth said pleasantly.

A look of uncertainty crossed the farmer's face. "I don't mean no disrespect, m'm, but in my mind this place would be a lot better off without the GIs chasing after every bit of skirt they set eyes on. They're troublemakers, the lot of them. I wish they'd go back where they belong."

'Troublemakers?" Elizabeth was doing her best to hold her temper, but she could feel her cheeks growing warm and her fingers clenching in her lap. "These men, who risk losing their lives every day to help us fight this dreadful war, are nothing but troublemakers? I wonder how they'd feel if they heard you speak of them that way. How motivated do you think they'd be, given how you feel, to go through the gates of hell to save your skin?"

"Begging your pardon, your ladyship, I know the risks the lads are taking, but that doesn't give them the right to ruin innocent young lives. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my work." He nodded at Alfie, who looked as if he were about to choke. "Thanks, mate. See you tomorrow." He gave Elizabeth a frosty look. "Your ladyship."

"Good day," Elizabeth said stiffly. She waited until the door had swung behind the belligerent farmer, then let out her breath in an explosion of wrath. "Well I never! What an abominable man. It's that kind of thinking that causes all the trouble in Sitting Marsh. I'd like to beat some sense into that dense brain of his."