Read Manor House 04 - Dig Deep for Murder Online
Authors: Kate Kingsbury
Manor House 04 - Dig Deep for Murder
Dig Deep for
Murder
A Manor House
Mystery
By Kate Kingsbury
Copyright 2002 by Doreen Roberts Hight
Cover by Rachel High
CHAPTER
1
"I have to find someone to take over poor John Rickett's plot," Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton murmured. "I hate to see it go to weed after he took such excellent care of it. It's essential that we keep the Victory Gardens productive."
Seated at her desk in her office, she shuffled through the stack of papers in front of her. Lately it seemed that the paperwork necessary to run the Manor House and its estate was rapidly multiplying out of control.
She'd been more or less talking to herself, and didn't expect an answer. She was therefore quite surprised when Polly spoke up.
"Ooh, can me mum have it? She's been talking about growing vegetables for ages, but our garden ain't—isn't—big enough. Full of rosebushes and dahlias, it is. Me dad would have a fit if she dug that lot up to grow spuds."
Polly slammed the drawer of the file cabinet closed, rocking it on its feet.
The cabinet was actually an antique chest of drawers that had once graced the vast bedroom of Elizabeth's late parents, Lord and Lady Wellsborough. It wasn't accustomed to having its drawers slammed. Elizabeth had to wonder how long it could withstand her diligent assistant's treatment.
Polly sat down at the small table Elizabeth had provided for her. "I remember when the air raid wardens told us we should put a bomb shelter in the garden. Me mum told 'em it would be over her dead body. She got really, really cross when they said as how she might very well be dead without one. When she told me dad what they said—"
Well aware that if she didn't put a stop to Polly's chatter, she wouldn't get any more work out of her, Elizabeth said firmly, "Your mother is welcome to the plot as long as she utilizes it. I trust she plans to grow more than spuds—er—potatoes?"
"I s'pose so. She's always going on about how hard it is to get lettuce and tomatoes since the rationing. And she likes carrots, and peas, and cauliflower, and brussels sprouts, and—"
"Well, that's settled, then." Elizabeth scribbled the name
Edna Barnett
in the space at the top of the page. "Tell your mother that if she needs advice on growing things, Desmond will be happy to oblige."
Polly wrinkled her nose. "Not much of a gardener, that Desmond. I saw him pruning the rosebushes the other day. Just chopping at 'em, he was. Me dad would make a better gardener than Des." She propped her chin on her hand and gazed out the window. "Wish he could be your gardener instead of being in the Army. I don't half miss him."
"I'm sure you do. Desmond does his best, however. With most of the men in the village off to war, we have to make do with who and what we can get. Now, how
are you getting along with those rent notices?"
Polly looked down at the register. "Still got some more to do. I see Fred Bickham's late with his rent."
"Really?" Elizabeth frowned. "How peculiar. Fred has paid his rent on time ever since he moved into that cottage. It's not like him to be late. Something must be wrong. I'll have to run down and have a chat with him."
"I could do it on me way home!" Polly looked excited at the prospect. "I'll get the money out of the old bugger, you see if I don't."
"Thank you, Polly, but I can take care of it. If Fred has a problem, I should be the one to discuss it with him."
"Yes, m'm."
"Actually, I really need you to ring the Labour Exchange in London to see if they have any more applicants for the job of housemaid. So far no one I've interviewed seems particularly keen to take the job. I had no idea it would take all this time to find someone."
"If you ask me, it's Violet what frightens them off. Girls nowadays don't like being bossed around and spoken to like they're dirt. There's so many jobs out there for women now, they don't have to put up with all that rubbish."
"Oh, dear, I really don't know what I can do about that. Violet tends to take her position as housekeeper very seriously. I suppose I could have a word with her and ask her not to be quite so belligerent."
Polly grinned. "That's like asking Martin to do a tap dance while he's serving dinner."
"Yes, well, poor Martin is getting along in years, I'm afraid." Elizabeth sighed. "He used to be a very good butler. It's sad to see him so feeble now. Anyway, ring the Labour Exchange and see what you can do."
"Yes, m'm. I'll do that right away." Polly jumped up from her chair as Elizabeth rose to her feet. "I just want to say, Lady Elizabeth, that Violet's not all that bad. I got along with her most of the time. I liked being a house
maid, I really did, but I like being your assistant so much better."
"You're doing a wonderful job, Polly," Elizabeth assured her, with more generosity than the girl deserved. "Keep up the good work."
"Yes, m'm. Oh . . . there was one thing . . . " Her voice trailed off, and for once she looked unsure of herself. Although she was only sixteen, Polly normally had all the confidence and audacity of someone twice her age.
Elizabeth paused in the doorway. Polly's rail-thin body and straight black hair would have made her seem austere were it not for her huge, laughing brown eyes and ready smile. She wasn't smiling right now, however, and her troubled look unsettled Elizabeth. "Polly? What is it? Is something wrong? Your father?" Loved ones fighting overseas were always uppermost in her mind when she sensed problems with her staff.
"Oh, no, m'm. Me dad's fine. Least he was, last time he wrote. Doesn't say much in his letters, of course. You know what they say." Polly placed a finger over her lips. "Loose lips sink ships."
"Quite. So, what was it you wanted to tell me?"
"Oh, right. Well, it's them ghosts Martin is always talking about."
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. "Martin? Polly, I thought you understood that we can't attach too much importance to anything Martin might say. He is, after all, well into his eighties. It's hardly surprising that he gets . . . confused at times. We must all do our best to let him think he's still useful, but I'm afraid his mind wanders quite a bit at times."
"Yes, m'm. I do know he flips out now and then. But this time I think he might be right about the ghosts. I saw them."
In spite of herself, Elizabeth felt a chill. Normally she ignored her butler's occasional bouts of senility. Martin had been with the family since before the turn of the century. He was entitled to "flip out" now and then, as Polly
so succinctly put it. There was something in her assistant's eyes, however, that made her ask sharply, "Whatever do you mean?"
Polly looked down at her feet. She was wearing those thick platform shoes that the young girls liked so much. Elizabeth often wondered how she could totter around on them all day without breaking an ankle. "I saw them, Lady Elizabeth. There were three of them. Children, they were. They flitted across the great hall by the east wing."
Elizabeth let out her breath. Ever since the officers from the nearby American air base had been billeted in the east wing, life at the Manor House had not been the same. It was wartime, of course, and one had to make sacrifices. Nevertheless, there were times when she couldn't help longing for days before the war, when her parents were alive and the Manor House was bustling with visitors and had a full staff to take care of them. Things were so much simpler then.
Now she not only had American servicemen to worry about, there were all the problems of running the estate, made a hundred times worse by mounting debts, thanks to her ex-husband, who had gambled away her inheritance. The last thing she needed was her office assistant seeing ghosts.
"I really do think you might have imagined it," she said firmly. "I've done the very same thing myself. A shadow cast by the wind in the branches of a tree, a draft of cool air stirring the curtains, a cloud passing over the sun—when you're alone in the great hall with all those old portraits and ancient relics lying about, not to mention a full suit of armor, it's really not surprising you imagine a ghost or two."
"Three," Polly said, with disturbing conviction. "I saw three of them, your ladyship. I swear it. Floating across the great hall, they were."
"Are you quite sure it wasn't American officers creeping back to their rooms in order not to disturb the others?"
"It were the middle of the morning, m'm. They were
all gone, flying across the Channel, more'n likely."
"Quite." Elizabeth glanced at the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. "Well, let me know if you see them again. And please ring the Labour Exchange. Violet is getting extremely upset by all the extra work put upon her lately."
"Yes, m'm." Polly plopped down on her chair and reached for the telephone.
Leaving her to her task, Elizabeth headed for the kitchen.
Violet, her housekeeper, was the only able-bodied member of the original staff to remain at the manor, since one could not, in all honesty, include Martin in that category. Still, he tried his best, and when his best was sadly lacking, which was a great deal of the time, Elizabeth and Violet surreptitiously took over his duties, thus assuring the old man of his continued usefulness in the household.
If at times Elizabeth suspected that Martin was aware of his limitations, neither of them cared to speak of it. Martin represented the old school, life as it was before the war changed everything, and neither he nor the lady of the manor had any desire to give up the last shreds of a lost era.
When Elizabeth entered the roomy kitchen, Violet was stooped over the sturdy table, busily chopping thick red stalks of rhubarb.
"Thought I'd make a pie," she said when Elizabeth sat down opposite her. "We haven't had rhubarb crumble in ages. I got some extra lard from the grocer's. Percy's usually got some tucked under the counter."
"I hope he's not getting it from the American base." Elizabeth reached for the newspaper. "You know how I disapprove of all this black market nonsense. Percy is in danger of losing his grocer's shop if he keeps taking these risks."
Violet tutted. "Get out of bed the wrong side this morning, did we? What's bothering you, Lizzie? Had a tiff with Major Monroe, have we?"
Elizabeth looked up sharply. Since Violet had practi
cally raised her, she was the only person in the world allowed to use the childhood name. That wasn't what bothered Elizabeth, however. Her friendship with the handsome American major, Earl Monroe, was very dear to her, a precious and delicate thing to be treasured, and she resented Violet's teasing.
"For your information, I haven't seen Earl in the last two days. Not that it's any of your business."
"Ah, so that's what's eating you." Violet looked smug as she piled the pieces of rhubarb into a large bowl.
A tangy fragrance drifted across the table, reminding Elizabeth that she'd had only a small bowl of soup for lunch. Since the rationing, meals at the Manor House had become rather meager, except for the rare occasion when Violet managed to acquire an extra pork chop or an egg or two. Elizabeth usually kept quiet at such times, mindful of the upheaval caused the time she'd discovered that Percy was dealing in black market goods. A still tongue in a wise head seemed the best policy these days.
Until now, anyway, which no doubt was why Violet watched her with her sharp eyes, her head tilted to one side in a way that always reminded Elizabeth of an inquisitive sparrow.
"Earl's absence is not what's bothering me," she declared, not quite truthfully. It always disappointed her when she didn't see him, at the very least for a brief greeting before he rushed off to the base, or arrived back, exhausted, after a mission.
Always there was the nagging worry that this time he wouldn't come back. So many of them didn't come back. She couldn't imagine how she would feel if he were one of them.
The fact that Earl had a wife and children waiting for him in America added guilt to her conflicting emotions about their relationship. Not that he had betrayed his marriage in any way. Earl Monroe was, and always had been, the perfect gentleman.
It was her own feelings for him, despite her best efforts
to ignore them, that prompted her guilt. Her only comfort was in knowing that he had no knowledge of her fondness for him, other than the friendship she valued so highly.
"So, are you going to tell me what's putting that scowl on your face, or are you going to sit daydreaming all day?"
Elizabeth dragged her thoughts away from Major Monroe. "It's this business of finding a new housemaid," she said, laying the newspaper down. "There was a time when one could find any number of young girls on the estate who were anxious to work at the Manor House. Nowadays they're all flocking to London, taking over the men's jobs for three times the money they can earn in service."
