Death Is in the Air (6 page)

Right then, he seemed the most likely candidate, since she found it so hard to believe that the other two were capable of such a violent crime. Then again, it was all too easy to jump to conclusions.

Maybe she was too ready to believe the best of people. That had certainly been her downfall in her disastrous marriage. What she was certain of was that this detective business was a lot more complicated than she’d realized. No wonder George and Sid had so much trouble with it.

Speaking of whom, she reminded herself, she needed to talk to the constables and ask them to talk to Jeff Thomas. He was apparently the last person to see Amelia alive. Since it appeared he had been quarreling with her that night, he was most certainly at the top of the list of suspects. Unfortunately her connections did not stretch to His Majesty’s service, and she could hardly go waltzing into an army camp demanding to speak to one of their soldiers. She’d have to leave that to the constables and hope they did their job.

In the meantime, there was the little matter of dinner with Major Monroe to deal with, and it would take her an entire afternoon to find a suitable dress to wear in her eclectic wardrobe.

Her spirits rising, Elizabeth sailed grandly down the High Street of Sitting Marsh on the saddle, acknowledging the friendly waves of the villagers with her usual graceful salute, carefully copied from the matriarch of the royal family. Image was everything, after all.

Martin took forever to open the door to her urgent summons when she reached home. By the time he’d finally dragged the door open wide enough for her to pass through, she was seething with impatience.

His look of alarm when he saw her alerted her to the fact that something had upset him—an event that seemed to be occurring with alarming frequency these days.

“Thank heaven you are home, madam,” he spluttered. “I was beginning to fear for your very life. Violet tells me there is a filthy scoundrel loose in the woods. Murdered a field girl . . . or farm girl . . . or something.”

Violet
, Elizabeth thought darkly,
talked too much
. “It’s all right, Martin. As you can see, I’m perfectly all right. But thank you for worrying about me.”

“I shall always worry about you, madam. No matter what Violet tells me to do. Or not to do.”

Wondering what that was about, Elizabeth left him muttering to himself and headed down to the kitchen, from where an appetizing fragrance wafted up the stairs.

Violet stood at the stove, busily stirring something in a pot. She twisted her head around when Elizabeth walked in. “Oh, there you are, Lizzie. I was wondering when you’d get back. Martin has been driving me batty with his dithering. Kept telling me you’d been murdered.”

“I wish you hadn’t told him,” Elizabeth said mildly. “You know how easily he’s upset.”

Violet sniffed. “Better he heard it from me than from someone else. He’s going quite dotty lately. He’s convinced that the master’s ghost is roaming the halls. Hope he doesn’t tell the Yanks that.”

“I don’t think they’ll pay much attention to him.” Elizabeth glanced at the clock. “What are you cooking?”

“Tomato soup. Got a new loaf of crusty bread from Bessie’s Bake Shop to go with it.”

“Wonderful!” Elizabeth sank onto a chair at the table. “I’m absolutely starving. How is Bessie? Is she still doing a good business in the tearoom? I haven’t been down there in weeks.”

“She’s doing better now that the Yanks are here.” Violet stirred the soup one more time, then turned off the
gas flame beneath it. “The shop was full of them. Though mind you, I think they help her out with sugar and flour from the base. She even had two dozen eggs in the pantry. Bet they didn’t come from Bodkins.”

“I’m sure she has special rations for her business,” Elizabeth said, determined not to be drawn into another argument about accepting gifts from the Americans.

Violet poured the steaming soup into two bowls and set one of them in front of Elizabeth. “So what happened down at the police station? Have they caught that bloody German yet? I saw Rita down at the bakery. She’s getting her troops together to go and hunt for him.”

Alarmed, Elizabeth paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth. “I certainly hope she does no such thing. Does she have any idea how dangerous that can be?”

“I would think if she knows that Nazi killed someone she’d also have the sense to know he isn’t going to play Ring around the Rosie with them.”

“I was thinking more of it being dangerous for the German.”

Violet grinned. “You might have something there. You know there’s no stopping Rita once she’s got a bee in her bonnet about something. She’s all set to go after that poor blighter. Heaven help him if she catches up with him.”

“It’s unlikely she will. I understand from George that soldiers from the army camp are hunting for him. I just hope that they don’t run into Rita and her motley crew of housewives.”

“I wouldn’t like to bet on who comes out best of that battle.”

Elizabeth sipped at her soup, then lowered her spoon. “This is very good, Violet.”

The housekeeper tipped her head to one side. “You haven’t told me how you got on at the police station.”

Having failed in her attempt to change the subject, Elizabeth laid down her spoon. “I don’t think the constables have any real proof that the German pilot was
responsible for the murder. They say she was killed with an axe, but they haven’t found it yet, so they don’t really know any more than I do.”

“Those nitwits never know what they’re doing, anyway. That’s what you get when you drag two blokes out of retirement like that. They forget everything they ever learned, and their feeble minds can’t learn it again.”

“They are doing the best they can under the circumstances. While I acknowledge that the German must be caught and put under guard, I have the feeling that the constables are looking in the wrong place for their murderer.”

“You mean he’s not in the woods?”

“I mean I don’t think he’s necessarily the murderer.”

“Go on!” Violet brought her soup to the table and sat down. “Well, if you don’t think the German killed that poor girl, then who did? Maybe it was one of the Yanks this time.”

Elizabeth jerked up her chin. “I don’t want to hear you repeat that to anyone else,” she said sharply. “Rumors are flying around as it is, and I won’t have the Americans blamed for everything that goes wrong in Sitting Marsh.”

Violet looked unabashed by her attack. “All right, Lizzie, keep your hair on. I was just thinking aloud.”

“I’d rather you kept that kind of thought to yourself.”

Violet leaned forward and peered into her face. “Getting nervous about our dinner tonight, are we?”

“No, of course not.” Elizabeth broke off a piece of bread and dropped it into her soup. “I’ve told you, this is a business dinner. And if you try to make anything else of it, Violet, I shall be unforgivably rude.”

“Seems to me,” Violet said quietly, “that you’re already making a lot out of it. Just be careful, Lizzie. A lot of hearts get broken during wartime. It happens all the time.”

Elizabeth chose not to answer. The warning went deep, however, and she could not ignore its message. No matter how much she tried.

CHAPTER
6

By that evening Elizabeth’s stomach was so full of butterflies she was quite certain she’d never be able to force down a bite of food. Which would be a great shame, since the aromas wafting from the warm kitchen were enough to make a statue’s mouth water.

Making sure she was at least ten minutes late, Elizabeth finally left the sanctuary of her bedroom and proceeded down the main staircase to the dining room.

Martin hovered at the foot of the staircase, in his usual state of flustered anxiety. “Madam,” he whispered hoarsely as soon as she came within earshot, “there’s one of those confounded Americans sitting in the dining room. The master is not going to like this at all. Not at all, madam. The blighter had the nerve to tell me he was invited. What utter rot! Just say the word, and I will remove him at once.”

Elizabeth hid a smile at the thought of Martin
attempting to forcefully remove the rugged major. “It’s quite all right, Martin. I invited the major to dinner myself. Didn’t Violet tell you?”

Martin looked aghast. “Violet merely mentioned that you were expecting a guest. She failed to mention that you were entertaining an
American
.”

He’d said “American” as if he were referring to some obnoxious beetle. Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “The major is a guest in our home, Martin. I trust you will treat him as such?”

Instantly transformed by her tone, Martin stiffened. “As you wish, madam. I feel obligated to point out, however, that the master has not given his permission for such an escapade, and I am quite sure that he will be as appalled as I am when he is made aware of it. We are only trying to protect you, madam.”

Elizabeth patted Martin’s arm. “Thank you, Martin. I appreciate your concern. And in case you might have forgotten, the master is no longer with us. He and my mother have been gone for two years.”

Martin nodded. “Gone and returned, madam. As you no doubt will discover for yourself before too long.”

Elizabeth frowned. Martin often had lapses of memory and frequent bouts of mind-wandering, but they rarely lasted more than a few minutes or so. His continued insistence on seeing her father’s ghost was disturbing. It was something she would have to worry about later, she decided. Right now she had something much more tangible to worry about.

She had selected a calf-length cream frock in raw silk to wear and had draped a sky-blue scarf around her shoulders to soften the neckline. She really didn’t care for the shoulder pads, which tended to make her look top-heavy, but it seemed that all the clothes came with them these days. Her mother’s gold and pearl earrings and matching pendant completed the attire, and she felt confident she looked her best.

Even so, she felt like a gawky schoolgirl when Martin
pompously announced her arrival in the dining room with just an underlying hint of disapproval.

Major Earl Monroe was seated at the foot of the table. He rose to his feet as she walked into the elegant room, and she found his unabashed expression of appreciation even more unsettling.

She murmured her apologies while he pulled back her chair. “I’m terribly sorry for keeping you waiting, Major.”

He eased the chair in as she sat down, then returned the length of the table to his own seat. “No need to apologize, Lady Elizabeth. I’ve been enjoying an excellent Scotch while I studied the contents of this room. You have some great antiques on these walls. Fascinating stuff.”

She smiled. “Thank you. Some of them have been in the family for generations.”

“Like the portraits upstairs. What about that whalebone over there? What’s the story behind that?”

Thankful to have an opening subject to break the ice, she launched into the story of her great-great-uncle’s adventures aboard a sailboat in the Pacific islands.

Violet interrupted a few minutes later to announce the menu; celery soup, roast beef, and Yorkshire pudding, followed by a sherry trifle. “I’ll be serving the first course in a moment or two,” she declared. “Meanwhile, can I offer you a glass of champagne?”

Elizabeth widened her eyes in surprise. “That would be very nice, Violet.” Wondering how on earth her housekeeper had acquired champagne, she added, “You remember Major Monroe, Violet? I’m sure you remember my housekeeper, Major?”

“We bumped into each other in the kitchen just now.” He exchanged a look with Violet that was purely conspiratorial, and she preened like a mating peacock.

“The major was kind enough to bring us a bottle or two. That’s where the champagne came from.” A flush
spread over her cheeks, and she patted her frizzy hair. “He brought whiskey as well.”

Put out by the housekeeper’s defiance of her wishes, Elizabeth said tartly, “You may serve the champagne, Violet.”

Violet’s expression was unrepentant. “I’ll send Martin in,” she said and scuttled back to the kitchen.

“I hope I didn’t break any of your customs by taking the bottles to the kitchen.”

Elizabeth stared down the table at him. Separated by three ornate silver candelabra, two huge bowls of white daisies, and a cornucopia filled with ripe apples from the orchard, she felt less intimidated by him than during their earlier encounters. Even so, she felt the impact of his gaze as she murmured, “Not at all, Major. I’m sure Violet was most appreciative.”

He chuckled. “She gave me a hug. Nice lady. Reminds me of an aunt of mine back home.”

Elizabeth felt a pang of envy and quickly suppressed it. She had no desire to hug the major. If Violet wanted to make a fool of herself that was her affair. “Violet has been with the family a very long time. I value her as a friend and as a surrogate member of my family. She was a great source of comfort to me after the death of my parents.”

Violet chose that moment to return with the champagne. She fluttered around Earl as if he were a long-lost son, Elizabeth noticed, with a faint pang of resentment. It was obvious the major had won over Violet with his undeniable charm. All the more reason for her to remain on guard as far as her own attitude toward the handsome American. It wouldn’t do for everyone to fall under his spell.

She was beginning to understand now the attraction these men held in the village. Much more debonair and infinitely more glamourous than their British stiff-upper-lip counterparts, they added the spice of adventure to a very bleak environment for the women of Sitting Marsh.
Forced to manage without their menfolk, struggling to feed and clothe their families on the meager rations allowed them, faced with uncertain futures at best, no wonder they welcomed such exciting and alluring newcomers with open arms.

They would all do well to heed Violet’s warnings. She had spoken the truth when she’d said that many hearts were broken in wartime. The understandable urge to live for the moment was a powerful aphrodisiac. Under such circumstances, even the most level-headed person could well stray from the straight and narrow path.

“Why the glum look? You don’t like the champagne?”

Startled out of her thoughts, she quickly lifted her glass. Bubbles danced before her eyes as she murmured, “To your good health, Major Monroe.”

Instead of answering her, he rose from his chair. “Can I ask a favor?”

Wary now, she put down the glass. “Of course.”

“Do I have to sit at the end of this table? I feel like I’m trying to talk to you from the opposite end of a jungle.”

She hesitated, torn between fear of losing her security and the very strong desire to have him sit closer. In the end, desire won. She waved a hand at the chair to her right. “Please, make yourself at home.”

He grinned, unsettling her even further as he sat down in the chair she’d indicated. “That’s better. Now I can hear you and see you. I was beginning to get lonely down there.”

Matching his light tone, she murmured, “Well, we can’t have that, can we. I wouldn’t want it spread about that the Hartleighs were inhospitable.”

“I thought there was only one Hartleigh now.”

She smiled. “Only one in residence. I have uncles, aunts, and various cousins scattered around the world. Most of them live abroad.”

“What happened to your parents?”

His abrupt question disturbed her. She took a moment to regroup her thoughts.

“I’m sorry . . . if you’d rather not answer—”

“No, it’s all right.” She took a sip of her champagne and was pleasantly surprised by the delicate flavor. “This is very good.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

She liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. His skin looked leathery, dried out from too much sun and wind. She felt an instant’s longing to see the land where he’d grown up then quickly began speaking in an effort to erase the treacherous thought. “My parents were in London attending a concert two years ago, during the Blitz. My mother didn’t want to go, but my father insisted. He was not about to let those filthy Nazis, as he called them, stop him from living his life. They were waiting for a taxi when the sirens sounded. On their way to the shelter a bomb landed just down the street. They were both killed instantly.”

She sat staring down at her glass while the silence seemed to stretch into hours.

Then Earl Monroe gently covered her hand with his. “I’m sorry. That must have been real tough.”

She gulped. “It was.”

The door swung open and crashed against the wall, startling them both. Earl snatched his hand away, while Elizabeth sat up straight, trying to look as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

Martin shuffled into the room, bearing a tray upon which a large soup tureen balanced at a somewhat precarious angle. “Soup, madam!” he shouted, making her jump.

“Thank you, Martin.” Elizabeth eyed the priceless tureen, wondering what on earth had possessed Violet to entrust it to his unsteady hands. “You may put it down here.”

Quickly she cleared a space for it near her plate, then watched in trepidation as Martin advanced one uncertain
step at a time, bearing his burden as if it were a sacrifice being offered to the gods.

Holding her breath, she waited for him to reach the table, ready to spring into action should his step falter. When it happened, she was unprepared for it after all.

Martin tilted the tray just a fraction, but it was enough to start the heavy tureen sliding toward the edge. Elizabeth froze, certain that her butler would be badly scalded by the hot soup. Before she had time to let out her breath, however, Earl had leapt from his chair and somehow rounded the table in time to grab the tureen by its handles.

“We’ll just put it down here, sir,” he said and deposited the precious china pot safely onto the white linen tablecloth without spilling a drop.

Martin’s eyebrows twitched a few times. “I say, sir. Magnificent catch. Couldn’t have done better myself. Make a good silly mid-on proud, that one would.”

Catching sight of Earl’s puzzled look, Elizabeth murmured, “Cricket term.” She turned to Martin, who was still gazing at the major with something like awe on his face. “You may leave the soup, Martin. I will serve it myself.” She waited for Earl to reseat himself, still with a bemused expression on his face.

He sat down heavily on his chair as Martin shuffled slowly out of the room. “Silly mid-on?”

“Yes, it’s a cricket fielder’s position.”

“Silly mid-on? For real?”

Elizabeth nodded. “They have a silly mid-off, too.”

“You’re kidding me.”