An Unmentionable Murder (7 page)

Elizabeth sighed. “Calm down, Violet. I'm sure there's a perfectly good—”

She broke off as the door swung open and Martin appeared in the doorway. He took two steps into the kitchen, stopped, clutched his heart, and uttered an ear-piercing scream.

Elizabeth jumped, while Violet waved the knife at her. “See? What did I tell you? He's gone off his blinking rocker.”

Martin stared at Violet with something akin to horror on his face, one hand still clutching his chest, his mouth opening and shutting with, mercifully, no more sound coming out of it.

Still shaken by the awful shriek, Elizabeth leapt to her feet. “It's his heart,” she cried, rushing toward him. “He's having a heart attack.”

Martin's faded blue eyes focused on her, and he shook his head. One trembling hand pointed at Violet. He whispered something, then coughed, and finally got some coherent words out. “Violet, madam. She's bleeding all over the floor.”

“What?” Elizabeth spun around to look at her housekeeper.

Violet stood quite still, a dumbfounded expression on her face.

Elizabeth let out her breath in a puff of relief. “That's not blood, Martin,” she said, feeling a desperate urge to laugh. “It's beetroot juice. Look, Violet's cutting up beetroot.”

“Oh, my God.” Martin staggered over to his chair and leaned on the back of it, apparently too spent to make the effort to sit down. “I thought she'd cut off one of her blasted fingers.”

“You silly old fool!” Violet brandished the knife at him, making Elizabeth quite nervous. “What were you doing with my knickers in your room? Tell me that!”

Elizabeth uttered a soft groan. She'd rather thought that they would tread around the matter with some delicacy. Blurting it out like that was not likely to encourage Martin to enlighten them.

To her immense surprise, Martin raised his head and in a voice that had regained considerable strength declared, “If you are referring to that offensive flannel undergarment on my dresser, you might want to explain how it ended up at the end of the driveway, in full view of anyone passing by.”

It was Violet's turn to look astonished. “At the end of the driveway?”

“That's what I said.” Martin turned to Elizabeth. “May I have your permission to join you at the table, madam?”

Trying desperately to keep a straight face, Elizabeth said solemnly, “Of course you may, Martin. Please sit down.”

“Thank you, madam. I shall be honored.”

“What do you mean, at the end of the driveway?” Violet demanded. “How did my . . . unmentionables get there?”

“Well, I shouldn't think they walked there all by themselves.” Martin's bones creaked and cracked as he settled himself on his chair.

Violet looked at Elizabeth, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. “I swear I don't know what he's talking about.”

“Maybe the dogs took them down there,” Elizabeth suggested.

“What, and unpinned them from the clothesline? Where's the rest of them, then?” Violet gave Martin a sharp glare. “You don't have any more hidden under your bed, by any chance?”

Martin looked offended. “Why, in heaven's name, would I hide your undergarments under my bed? In any case, if I were to indulge in such juvenile behavior, I would undoubtedly choose something infinitely more attractive than those hideous baggy bloomers you wear.”

“Is that so?” Violet's eyes blazed with anger. “Like Polly's or Sadie's unmentionables, for instance?”

“Violet—,” Elizabeth began, but Martin interrupted her.

“How dare you, madam!” He started to rise to his feet, struggled for a bit, then gave up and plopped back down. “I refuse to be insulted in this way.”

“How do you know what I wear, anyhow?” Violet brandished the knife a little too close to his face for Elizabeth's comfort. “Have you been spying on me, you crazy old goat?”

“Your undergarments hang on the washing line in full view of everyone,” Martin declared. “I keep expecting them to take off in the wind. It's really not surprising they ended up at the end of the driveway. With the wind in sails that large, I would expect them to reach China.”

Deciding it was time to intervene, Elizabeth said quickly, “Martin, just when and where did you find Violet's underwear?”

Martin gave her a reproachful look. “As I've already indicated, madam. I found them at the end of the driveway. They were just lying there, like—”

“Quite. When was that?”

“When I returned to the manor this morning, madam.”

“Returned from where, Martin?”

She'd slipped the question in, hoping to catch him unawares. He was more alert than she'd anticipated. “I regret I'm not at liberty to say, madam.”

“I'm not trying to pry into your personal affairs, Martin—,” she began, but Violet interrupted.

“We have a right to know where you go, you old fool. We're responsible for you. What if something happened to you? How would we know where to find you?”

“I'm quite sure someone would alert Madam,” Martin said, apparently unperturbed by Violet's outburst. “In any case, I was in no danger, I can assure you of that.”

Giving up, Elizabeth shook her head at Violet, who seemed determined to pursue the matter. Martin would enlighten them when he was good and ready and not before. They just had to be patient, and trust that his assurances of his safety were valid.

“So you noticed the underwear on the driveway this morning?” she said, effectively silencing Violet.

“Yes, madam. I thought it prudent to pick them up, with some considerable distaste I might add, and return them to their owner. I visited my room first, and must have been distracted, since I forgot about them until now.” He turned a watery gaze on Violet. “Had I foreseen the fuss such a valiant gesture would create, I would have left the repulsive garment where it was.”

Elizabeth frowned. “But I left the manor before you returned, Martin. I didn't see anything lying in the driveway.”

“Then it must have blown there after you left, madam.”

“All the way to the driveway?” Violet demanded. “They would have to fly clear over the manor to do that.”

“Unless,” Elizabeth said slowly, “they were not the ones stolen yesterday. Did you put a new line of washing out on the line this morning, Violet?”

“Well, yes, I did. . . .” A look of alarm crossed Violet's face. “Oh, no, don't tell me—” She dropped the knife with a clatter on the table, spun around, and headed for the back door. “If they're gone as well I won't have any clean ones left.” She dragged open the door and rushed outside.

Elizabeth held her breath, until an agonized shriek told her the worst.

Violet burst back through the door, her frizzy gray hair standing on end.
“Gone!”
she cried. “Every last blooming pair of them. Yours, too, Lizzie. Polly's and Sadie's as well. All gone. Now what are we going to do?”

Elizabeth puffed out her breath in exasperation. “It appears we have a thief on our hands. I shall have to let George know about this. Apart from the obvious inconvenience this person is causing, I don't like the idea that a lawbreaker is making a habit of trespassing on our premises. This could be quite a nuisance.”

“I can't understand how the thief gets in and out without Desmond noticing.” Violet waved her hands in agitation. “I know he's not much of a gardener, but he has two perfectly good eyes.”

“I'll have a word with him,” Elizabeth promised. “I'll warn him to keep a lookout.”

“Might I suggest that if you'd let those abominable hounds of yours loose outside instead of mollycoddling them in the house all the time,” Martin observed, “perhaps we wouldn't have to worry so much about trespassers.”

“I'm afraid George and Gracie are much more likely to play with the intruder than chase him off.” Elizabeth leaned down to pat the soft head of the nearest dog by her feet.

“Well, for once Martin's right. You do treat them like children.” Violet turned back to the stove. “No wonder they're no good as guard dogs.”

The dogs
were
her babies, Elizabeth thought fondly. Hers and Earl's. The closest she'd ever come to sharing a family with him. The thought of him brought a stab of anxiety. With each passing hour now she worried more about his safety. Never had he been absent this long without somehow getting word to her that he was safe. She was dreadfully afraid—She cut off the thought before it had time to form. There was no need to tempt fate. He would return to her. It was as simple as that.

 
The next morning Elizabeth awoke with a feeling of foreboding that would not go away, no matter how hard she tried to focus on other matters. After ringing George at the station and giving him an awkward report of the missing undergarments, she went down to the kitchen, where she found Polly and Sadie in an outrage at the loss of yet more of their precious clothes.

“Why would he take just the knickers?” Polly demanded, close to tears. “Why didn't he take all the other clothes?”

Elizabeth exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Violet, who immediately turned back to the stove.

“Because he's blooming batty,” Sadie said. “A nutter. He belongs in the loony bin.”

“Well, I suppose that might be a safer place for him than running around our grounds,” Elizabeth agreed. “In the meantime, I want you girls to be extra careful. Don't go outside alone, and be on the watch for a stranger. He could be dangerous.”

Polly looked scared, while Sadie seemed more furious than afraid. “Just let me get me flipping hands on him,” she muttered. “I'll teach him to pinch me drawers.”

“You'll do no such thing,” Violet said briskly. “If you see someone stealing something like that you report him immediately to the constables.”

“And by the time they got up here,” Sadie said, nudging Polly, “he'd be long gone. I say we catch him ourselves and teach him a lesson.”

Polly's face was drawn with anxiety, but she offered no resistance to Sadie's defiant statement.

“Sadie, I really don't think—” Elizabeth got no further, as just then the telephone shrilled, startling them all.

Violet reached for the receiver, while Elizabeth stood helpless, heart pounding, her leap of hope impossible to subdue. She watched her housekeeper speak into the telephone, then pause to listen, her head tilted to one side.

“I'll give her the message,” she said at last, and hung up the telephone.

The disappointment was crushing, and Elizabeth struggled to keep her voice steady as she asked, “Who was that?”

“It was George.” Violet glanced at the girls, then said quietly, “We're not the only one to lose our drawers. Seems quite a few women have had them stolen off the washing lines. George is worried. He thinks we have a lunatic loose in the village.”

 
In spite of the warm sun sparkling on the ocean, the unsettling news, coupled with her worry over Earl, considerably dampened Elizabeth's spirits as she rode her motorcycle down to Sandhill Lane, where Wally Carbunkle lived with his new bride.

She missed Earl dreadfully. Even during the long months after he'd returned to America and she'd thought she'd never see him again, the aching misery hadn't felt this bad. Probably because at least she knew he was safe then, and there was always a glimmer of hope that he'd return. She had no such assurances now. In fact, the longer the silence, the more certain she became that something dreadful had happened to him.

Then again, there had been no word from any of the officers who'd billeted at the manor. They had obviously been confined to the base, a sure sign that their missions were even more dangerous than usual.

Doing her best to keep her worry confined to the back of her mind, Elizabeth pulled up outside the little cottage with its neat lawn and rose-lined pathway. Thinking of the house she'd visited the day before, she couldn't help comparing Wally's immaculate garden to the rag and bone man's bedraggled efforts.

Reminding herself not to think ill of the dead, she tapped on the front door of the cottage. It opened immediately, revealing Priscilla Carbunkle, her face beaming with pleasure at the sight of her visitor.

“Lady Elizabeth! How good of you to call.” She stepped back, saying over her shoulder, “Look, Wally! Look who's come to call!”

Wally's weathered face appeared over her shoulder. “Your ladyship! Come in, come in!”

Warmed by their welcome, Elizabeth stepped into the tidy little parlor, her gaze drawn immediately to the large vase of glorious pink roses that filled the room with their fragrance. “Oh, what beautiful roses! They smell divine.”

“You must have some to take home with you, your ladyship.” Priscilla led her visitor to a comfortable chair. “Though, of course, I'm sure the Manor House roses are just as lovely.”

“Actually they're not,” Elizabeth admitted as she seated herself. “Desmond is rather lackadaisical, I'm afraid. How I miss the gardeners we used to have when my parents were alive.”

“Indeed,” Wally murmured. “Such a great loss for you. I often wonder how you manage in that monumental house without all the servants.”

Priscilla gave him a sharp look, which he either didn't see or chose not to acknowledge.

Elizabeth smiled. “Such a very small area of the manor is actually in use these days. We manage very well with Martin and Violet. Then, of course, there's Sadie and Polly, who are a great help.”

“Always think of Martin as a doddery old fool,” Wally said bluntly. “I'm surprised he's still around.”