Manor House 03 - For Whom Death Tolls (7 page)

At first the contrast from the pale sunlight outside blinded her, and she blinked several times before her eyesight gradually adjusted. Folding chairs had been stacked against the far wall, and a long trestle table graced another wall. At one end a pile of rubbish turned out to be American chewing gum wrappers and cigarette packages, empty beer bottles, and other remains left behind by visitors to the building.

The abandoned pavilion had earned a certain notoriety these days for being a lovers' rendezvous, as evidenced by the litter left around. When it came to passion, it seemed, locked doors were no match against the determination of the young. In fact, she noticed at least two windows that had been forced open, and did her best to secure them again.

Surprised to find the back room, which had once served as a storeroom, already unlocked, Elizabeth investigated, and was intrigued to spot wisps of green straw lying around on the floor. It looked as if the curly material could have been used for stuffing . . . perhaps for a toy or a pillow. Certainly she hadn't seen anything like it before.

After thoroughly inspecting the premises, she decided that with a thorough cleaning and a tablecloth or two to
cover the scars on the table, the place could be made fairly presentable, after all.

As usual, Rita Crumm had offered the services of her long-suffering crew, and with the decorations rescued from the Town Hall Massacre, as some people called it, they might even achieve a semblance of festivity in the place.

Bessie had promised to donate refreshments from her bakeshop for a fraction of her usual fee, no doubt boosted by products smuggled out of the base by her generous American customers. In fact, Elizabeth decided, as she let herself out of the building and locked it again, she should drop in on Bessie and discuss the menu.

She was about to mount her motorcycle again when something caught her eye at the edge of the building. Just to make sure, she walked over to take a closer look. Strangely, she saw that the ridges she'd observed were actually heavy tire tracks, cut deep into the grass.

Someone had driven a lorry up onto the grass, possibly to hide it behind the pavilion out of sight. A rather large vehicle, judging from the depth of the tracks. Following them, Elizabeth discovered that the lorry had been parked behind the building, as she'd suspected. Shaking her head, she retraced her steps. Someone must have had a party in the pavilion. Probably more than one. And most likely the guest list had included a number of Americans, which would explain the lorry.

Making a mental note to get the windows repaired and locked right away, she rode back into town, her mouth watering at the thought of sampling some of Bessie's pastries.

As it happened, Rita Crumm sat in the corner of the charming little tearoom with two companions when Elizabeth arrived there a short while later. As she seated herself at her usual table, all three murmured a greeting, which she answered with a graceful raising of her hand.

The afternoon sun found its way through the small squares of the leaded pane window and cast an intricate pattern across the white tablecloth. It looked rather like a giant deformed checkerboard, Elizabeth mused, as she waited to be served. It had been so long since she'd played checkers. Her father had often challenged her to a game when she was growing up. How she missed him. And her mother.

Fortunately, just as she was beginning to feel sorry for herself, Bessie hustled over to the table, her plump face beaming. Normally she sent one of her girls to wait on tables, but Elizabeth always received personal service from Bessie herself. Elizabeth secretly maintained that Bessie used her as an excuse to sit out in the quiet elegance of the tearoom and enjoy her own baking, rather than any deference to her honored guest.

"I have just pulled a batch of scones from the oven, your ladyship," Bessie gushed, as Elizabeth removed her gloves. "If you'd care to wait a minute or two for them to cool, I could serve them with fresh Devonshire cream and some of my homemade strawberry jam."

Having had lunch not long before, Elizabeth wasn't exactly hungry, but the thought of Bessie's scones whetted her appetite. "That sounds marvelous, Bessie, thank you. Meanwhile, I wonder if you could spare a moment to discuss with me the menu for the cricket match?"

"Of course, m'm. If you'll just give me a minute in the kitchen."

She scuttled away, and a second or two later Rita Crumm's imperious voice rang out across the room. "Lady Elizabeth, am I to assume that the cricket match will be taking place quite soon?"

Elizabeth gritted her teeth. Trust Rita to conduct a conversation clear across the tearoom, rather than approach her as protocol demanded. She was tempted to ignore the woman, but she needed her services and that of her followers if the cricket match was to be a success.

Raising her voice just high enough to be heard, she announced, "The cricket match will take place a week from tomorrow, though we will be having a short rehearsal next Monday evening, to teach the Americans how to play the game."

"That'll be a laugh," Marge Gunther muttered. "I'll volunteer for that one."

Nellie Smith, the only unmarried woman at the table, tittered and dug her elbow into the plump woman's side.

Rita managed to freeze both women with a single glance. "I see. Then we shall need to get the place spruced up some time this week."

"If you would be so kind." Elizabeth managed the semblance of a smile. The feud between herself and Rita Crumm was a bitter one. Everyone in the village was aware that Elizabeth's father had married beneath him. His wife had been nothing more than a kitchen maid when Lord Wellsborough met and married her. The fifteen-year-old bride had spent her life trying to live down her humble beginnings, and society being what it was, had unwittingly handed the stigma down to her daughter.

Elizabeth had managed to rise above the blot on her lineage, and for the most part, the villagers appeared to have forgotten about it. There were one or two, however, who still resented the fact that the illustrious position of lady of the manor and custodian of Sitting Marsh had been handed to the daughter of a common servant. Rita Crumm was one such person.

Rita seemed to spend a vast amount of time doing her best to better Elizabeth's efforts. Then again, Rita spent most of her time proving to everyone that she could surpass anyone else on the entire earth. Elizabeth was not one to refuse a challenge, and therefore her relationship with her formidable opponent more often than not resulted in a battle of wits.

At that moment, Elizabeth was trying to repress her
resentment at having to ask a favor of her sworn enemy. It made her feel only slightly better to open her handbag, lay the keys to the pavilion on the tablecloth, and say sweetly, "Here are the keys, Rita. You can pick them up on the way out."

Rita lifted her chin, then glared at Nellie. "Don't just sit there. Go and fetch the keys for me. Please."

Nervous Nellie had not earned her nickname for nothing. She leaped to her feet, sending her chair crashing back into the one behind it in her haste to retrieve the keys.

Feeling sorry for her, Elizabeth dropped them into the woman's trembling hand.

"Thank you, your ladyship," Nellie whispered, and scampered back to her table, just as Bessie reappeared with a tray of scones and a silver teapot.

"Now then, Lady Elizabeth," Bessie announced, as she poured the steaming brown liquid into the cup, "if you would care to discuss the menu, I have a few minutes to spare. If I may join you?"

"Of course." Elizabeth gave the pink-cheeked woman a warm smile. "I'll enjoy the company."

"Thank you, your ladyship." Bessie dropped onto the chair with a sigh of relief. "I'm getting too old to be on my feet all day, that I am. I keep thinking it's time I sold the bakeshop and took a rest."

Elizabeth looked at her in alarm. "Don't say that, Bessie. Sitting Marsh wouldn't be the same without your wonderful cakes and pastries to enjoy. The bakeshop is as much an institution in the village as is St. Matthew's."

Bessie chuckled. "Well, thank you, your ladyship. That's always nice to hear." She shot a glance at the table in the corner, where Rita appeared to be deep in conversation with her companions. Leaning forward, she whispered, "Speaking of the church, any news on who might have killed that poor boy in the bell tower?"

Keeping her voice just as low, Elizabeth answered,
"Not yet, though I understand the American investigators are looking into it."

"I know." Bessie helped herself to a scone and split it expertly with her knife. "They were in here, asking questions. Of course, no one knew anything. Most of us didn't even know the young man. Though I think Ted and Alfie, down at the pub, knew who he was. Troublemaker, so I heard. Still, he didn't deserve to be murdered like that. All that way from home, too. His poor parents."

"Yes, indeed," Elizabeth murmured, busy calculating if she had time to get down to the Tudor Arms to talk to Ted and Alfie and still be back at the Manor House in time for dinner.

"Well, about this menu," Bessie announced, raising her voice so heartily, she made Elizabeth jump. "I thought ham, sausages and cheese, some of my home-baked, bread, pickles, jelly, blancmange and trifle, and of course pastries. I thought I'd make cherry cakes, and fruit flans as well."

Elizabeth stared at her in amazement. "How are you going to manage all that on your rations?"

"Ah, that would be telling, wouldn't it. Don't you worry, your ladyship, I'll give those Yanks a feast to remember. That's a promise."

Elizabeth frowned. She knew better than to pry, but it concerned her that Bessie was so confident about her ability to conjure up such a sumptuous spread. "Speaking of good food, I ran across something this morning that I hadn't seen before. Little round pieces of chocolate imbedded in a biscuit. Very tasty. I was wondering if you'd seen them anywhere."

"Oo, yes, m'm. They're called chocolate chips. Made in America, they are. They have them on the base. It's amazing how chocolate tastes all the better when it's off ration."

Bessie laughed heartily, but Elizabeth didn't feel like
joining in. She was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with this sudden excess of food supposedly in short supply. It would seem that a great many people were benefitting from what appeared to be an endless stream of black market goods.

Surely they couldn't have that many contacts on the base. There had to be a source of supply somewhere in the village, which would be highly illegal, of course. Someone in Sitting Marsh was breaking the law, and it was up to her to find that person before he or she got everyone else into trouble.

Anxious now to get on with her itinerary, she finished her scone and the last of her tea, then bade Bessie goodbye. With some reluctance, she paused at Rita's table on the way out "I appreciate you ladies taking the trouble to clean up the pavilion for the cricket match," she told them, managing to avoid looking at Rita directly.

"We'll be happy to do it, your ladyship," Marge chirped. "Makes a change, doesn't it."

"We ladies of the Housewives League are always happy to do what we can for the troops, your ladyship," Rita added. "Besides, it'll be worth it for the fun of watching those Yanks make fools of themselves."

Elizabeth's smile froze. "I wouldn't be too sure of that if I were you, Rita. The Americans have a habit of turning the tables on us all. It could very well be our British soldiers who will be the ones to look the fools."

She marched out of the bakeshop before Rita could think of a suitable retort. Right now she had more important things to do than argue with someone whose judgment was based solely on her need to outshine everyone and everything.

Right now she needed to talk to Ted and Alfie and find out what they knew about Kenny Morris. As for the mystery of the black market goods, she'd simply have
to take care of that later. After all, this business of murder was far more important than a few boxes of contraband smuggled out of the base. Dismissing the problem from her mind, she headed for the Tudor Arms.

CHAPTER

6

Polly sat back on her heels and wiped the beads of perspiration from her forehead with the back of her arm. Housework certainly took the chill out of her bones, even though the house felt as cold as a morgue. Not that she'd ever been in a morgue.

Shivering at the thought, Polly cast one critical glance over the gleaming bathtub and climbed to her feet. At least the loo was clean for a while. Her lips twitched in amusement. She'd only just started calling the bathroom a loo, since Marlene had read about the new word in one of the magazines she kept in the hairdresser's where she worked.

Violet never knew what it meant, and Polly got the biggest delight out of using the word. It wasn't often she got one over on Violet. Polly picked up her bucket and mop and trudged wearily out of the bathroom. What with the dusting and polishing, window cleaning and
black-leading the grates in the massive fireplaces, she'd had no time to do her work in the office. There wasn't enough time to do both jobs. Her ladyship would just have to hire someone else to do the housework, that's all. She'd ask her about it the first chance she got.

Deep in thought about where her replacement might be found, she barely registered the sound of heavy footsteps marching down the wide hallway that led to the great hall. By the time she did, it was almost too late to hide the bucket and mop and whip off her apron.

The only reason she'd started work in the office at all was because she'd lied to Sam about being Lady Elizabeth's secretary to impress him. Well, after that, she'd had to make it come true, hadn't she. After all, she could hardly let Sam know she was only a housemaid. Of course, she'd lied about her age, too, but she couldn't do anything about that. The only real problem she'd had was hiding from Sam and the rest of the GIs while she was doing the housework. All the boys knew about her and Sam, and they were bound to tell him if they caught her cleaning the loo.

Luckily, she was inches away from a suit of armor standing in the corner by one of the enormous windows. She'd barely shoved everything behind it when the footsteps turned the corner and three men came into view.