Manor House 03 - For Whom Death Tolls (20 page)

"Ironic when you think about it," Earl observed. "If this Charlie had known about Kenny Morris, he wouldn't have had to bring the stuff all the way down from London. He could have bought it from Kenny and saved himself the trouble."

"Except that Charlie wasn't interested in buying anything," Elizabeth reminded him. "Charlie was stealing from the distribution center where he worked."

"An American PX, you mean."

She stared at him. "I really don't know. Though . . . yes . . . it must have been, because Henrietta had some of those biscuits with little pieces of chocolate in them."

"Chocolate chip cookies," Earl said, looking amused.

"Is that what they're called? How droll! Anyway, if she had American biscuits—"

"Cookies."

"Whatever. Then Charlie had to be stealing from an American establishment."

"The coincidence gets thicker."

"It does, indeed." Her mind worked at the problem. "It had to be coincidence, though. Henrietta was quite positive about the weekend she spent with Charlie in London. The same weekend of the murder."

"You don't think she could be lying, to protect her grandson?"

"I don't know." She thought about it. "But I don't think so. She's such a straitlaced little old lady. I don't think she'd take any nonsense from her grandson. She thinks the world of him. I don't think she has an inkling that Charlie stole that stuff. That's if he did steal it. He could have been telling the truth about buying surplus."

"If he did, then someone had to steal it in the first place. The American military doesn't sell supplies to civilians."

"I suppose not. In any case, it's all a moot point. I'm no closer to solving the mystery than your investigators. Charlie is the only person on the list of suspects who has an alibi. The others—Percy Bodkins, Brian Forrester, and, as much as you don't want to hear this, Sam Cutter—all had possible motives and no real alibi. Any one of them could be lying. But which one? And how do we prove it?"

"Good question." Earl reached for his glass and drained it. "The answer is, we don't. We stop worrying about it and let the investigators do their job."

Elizabeth frowned. "It isn't that easy to forget it. That young man was strangled to death in the bell tower of Sitting Marsh. I owe it to his grieving parents, as well as the villagers, to find out who has done this. I can't rest knowing that a murderer is still lurking around, congratulating himself on getting away with a despicable crime."

Earl stopped rocking the chair. "Elizabeth, you've done the best you possibly could to solve this murder. That's all anyone can do. I don't like the thought of you poking around in something that could be dangerous. So, please, do me a favor and just forget about it."

As always, when he used her first name, the pleasurable afterglow chased everything else from her mind. "When do you think you can arrange the baseball
match?" she asked, after a moment of companionable silence.

He grinned. "Glutton for punishment, you English."

"Not at all. We might just beat you at your own game."

"You can always dream, I guess."

Elizabeth pursed her lips. "It wouldn't be the first time that overconfidence bred disaster."

"If there's one thing us Yanks have going for us, it's our overwhelming confidence."

"So I noticed."

"It's got us through a few tight spots in the past."

Sobered by the comment, she said quietly, "I pray to God it gets you through the rest of them."

His gaze rested on her face for a moment before he answered. "I reckon we could all use the prayers."

He continued to hold her gaze until she felt quite breathless. She wanted to say something—anything, but was afraid that whatever she said would betray the rapid beat of her heart.

She was quite relieved when he said abruptly, "Where are George and Gracie?"

"In the kitchen with Violet. Lying by the fire, no doubt."

"I'll get busy with that fence in the stables in a day or two."

She thought about that for several seconds before saying, "I just don't feel comfortable about putting them out in the stables. I'm sorry, Earl, I know you said they are outdoor dogs, and I promise I'll get them outside as often as necessary, but I really don't think they consider themselves to be outdoor dogs and I just think they are too young and it would be too upsetting for them—"

His raised hand halted her rush of words. "Whoa, easy there. I never said they couldn't live in the house. I thought you were having problems with that, so I suggested the stables. If you want them in the house, then
by all means keep them here. It's your call."

She felt ridiculous, knowing that her small outburst was due more to her chaotic emotions than concern about the puppies. "Of course. And I think I shall keep them in the house. For now, anyway."

"Good for you." He raised an eyebrow. "Is Violet giving you a bad time about the dogs?"

"What? Oh, no, not really. Violet complains about everything, and as for Martin, he forgets what he's complaining about the minute he starts talking."

"Yeah, I noticed he's a little slow on the uptake. Not surprising, considering his age."

"I know." She looked down at her hands. "I worry about him at times. He seems to get more vague and confused as the weeks go by." She told him about the unlucky tourist Martin had mistakenly apprehended as an intruder.

Earl laughed. "At least he's still trying to protect you."

"I know." She smiled with him. "Sweet, isn't it."

"Very."

"Especially since I'm the one who should be protecting him."

"You make a great mother hen."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"You bet it is. I can't think of any woman I'd want more in my corner if my back was to the wall."

His comment pleased her immensely. She actually felt her cheeks warming, something that didn't happen too often.

"Well, I'd better get back to my quarters. I still have some paperwork to do." Earl rose, and reluctantly, she bid him good night.

"You will let me know about the baseball game?" she reminded him as she showed him out the door.

"You bet. Just as soon as I can get something arranged."

She had to be content with that.

After he left, she went back to the divan to finish her sherry. She sat for a long time mulling over what she knew about that fateful night Kenny Morris had died.

It did seem rather a coincidence that Charlie had been bringing down American supplies for his grandmother at the same time Kenny Morris had been dealing in the same thing.

What if Charlie had lied to Henrietta about where he got the goods? What if he'd got them from Kenny when he arrived in Sitting Marsh instead? That would make a lot more sense.

But if Charlie was buying only a case at a time, why would Kenny need a large truck to transport the goods? He could have simply thrown it in a jeep. Unless there were more than one contact involved in the black market business.

Elizabeth sat up straight, nearly spilling her sherry. Kenny was storing supplies in the pavilion, until he'd heard about the cricket match. Kenny would have had to find another storage place. Somewhere nearby.

There weren't that many places where someone could hide a truckload of goods. The crates could still be somewhere in the village. If she could find those goods, or at least traces of where they'd been stored, it might give her a clue that could help lead to Kenny's killer.

All she had to do was look for them.

The next morning Elizabeth cleaned out her beige handbag. Now that autumn had descended upon the countryside, the time for wearing beige shoes and bag had definitely passed.

After tipping everything out of the bag onto her bed, she fetched her black winter handbag and started sorting through the jumble scattered over the eiderdown.

She found the usual assortment of safety pins, hair pins, lipstick, box of aspirin, comb, keys, and the torn
half of a raffle ticket, as well as a creased photograph of herself with her parents when she was six.

She also found the silver comb, which, until now, she'd completely forgotten about. Staring at it, she envisioned Henrietta, shaking her head and dislodging gray hairs that floated to the floor.

Of course. Why hadn't she thought to ask her? True, the vicar had mentioned the comb to his parishioners, but if he'd announced it from the pulpit, Henrietta would have been unable to hear him.

Elizabeth slipped the comb into her handbag. She planned on taking a ride around the village that morning in the hopes of spotting somewhere that could be used for storing a load of crates. She would drop in to see Henrietta first, she decided, and ask her if she was the owner of the comb.

As it happened, Henrietta was in her garden when Elizabeth arrived there a little later. She stood at the door of the garden shed, apparently absorbed in its contents. She gave no sign of having heard the roar of Elizabeth's motorcycle, but remained motionless as Elizabeth walked down the path toward her.

She finally had to tap the elderly lady on the shoulder to get her attention.

Henrietta spun around, closing the door of the shed as she did so. "Oh, Lady Elizabeth," she cried, clutching her throat, "you quite startled me."

It wasn't until that moment that Elizabeth remembered she hadn't brought the blackboard. Hoping she wouldn't need it, she rummaged in her handbag until she found the comb.

Holding it out to Henrietta she said loudly, "Does this belong to you?"

Henrietta's pale blue eyes narrowed, and she peered through her glasses at the shiny comb. "It's very nice. Is it a gift?"

"Not really, no." Elizabeth touched her arm until the
old lady looked at her. Then mouthing each word with great exaggeration, she said slowly, "Is this your comb?"

Henrietta frowned. "Yes, I have a comb."

"But is this one yours?"

Still faced with the blank look, Elizabeth pointed to the comb, then Henrietta's hair, then at Henrietta herself. "Yours?"

"Oh, no." Henrietta shook her head and once more a gray hair or two drifted on the wind. "No, it's not mine. Never owned anything that fancy in me entire life."

Elizabeth sighed, then mouthed, "When will Charlie be coming down again?"

Henrietta put her hand up to her ear. "Eh?"

"Charlie," Elizabeth yelled. "When is he coming down again?"

"What? Sorry, your ladyship. Can't hear a word you're saying."

Giving up, Elizabeth smiled and nodded. She'd just have to keep a watch out for the errant grandson. Maybe a word or two in the bartender's ear at the Tudor Arms would help. Alfie had helped her out before once or twice. She could ask him to ring her if he saw Charlie come in.

Henrietta was chatting about the weeds along the garden path. "Look," she said, pointing at a clump of dandelions, "they'll be all over the garden if I don't get them pulled. Still, when I've left, it will be up to the new tenant to take care of them, won't it."

Elizabeth glanced at the weeds, and wondered if Henrietta had decided on a date to move out. She didn't feel like attempting to ask her. She was tired of shouting to make herself understood.

The dandelions straggled across the path, limp and bedraggled now that the cool night air had taken the stuffing out of them. Elizabeth noticed a couple of Henrietta's gray hairs caught in the spiky leaves. Seeing
them triggered a memory of something that she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"Can I get you a cup of tea, Lady Elizabeth?" Henrietta asked, as she led Elizabeth up the path to the gate. "It won't take me a minute to put the kettle on."

Elizabeth shook her head. "No, thank you, Henrietta. I have some errands to run."

The elderly widow must have understood, as she said cheerfully, "Next time, then. I'll keep watch from my window so I can see you arrive. I spend most of my day there. I hate to miss anything. I see a lot from that window. I can watch the kiddies going to school, and the postman bringing me a letter from Charlie, and lots of people ride their bikes and wave as they go by."

"That's nice," Elizabeth murmured, forgetting that Henrietta couldn't hear her. She was thinking about something else. Something that had been bothering her for the past week. Something other than the hairs in the weeds. Something much more significant.

"I have to go," she said sharply. "I'll stop by again soon." She didn't wait to see if Henrietta had understood. She was in far too much of a hurry.

The engine of her motorcycle roared as she jumped on the kick start, disturbing the quiet peace of the countryside. Heedless of the gravel her spinning wheels kicked up, she shot out of the little lane and headed back down the coast road toward the church. She knew now why the hairs in the weeds had reminded her of something. Maybe that was what had triggered the rest of it. A lot of things were falling into place. Things she should have realized some time ago.

Cursing herself for being so incredibly dense, she roared up the hill to the church.

Before calling on the vicar, she walked once more around to the back of the church, and crouched down in front of the ground-level window. There were still hairs attached to the dry, splintered frame. Being careful not
to dislodge them, Elizabeth peered through the dusty windowpane.

Obviously she was looking into the basement of the church, but it was far too dark to see much except for a few dark shapes covered by tarpaulins. She climbed to her feet. It was time to talk to the vicar once more.

The reverend answered the door to her knock, and invited her into his tiny parlor. "Would you like a cup of tea, Lady Elizabeth?" he asked her, as she unwound the scarf from her head. "I still have one in the pot. Deirdre made it for me before she left to go shopping. I was just on my way to the barber's. It's been so long since I had my hair cut, I'll very likely be mistaken for my wife if I don't see to it soon."

"Actually, Vicar, I just stopped by to ask you a question." Elizabeth hesitated. "Though a cup of tea does sound rather good right now."

"I won't take a minute. Sugar?"

"Two lumps, please, if you can spare some."