Manor House 03 - For Whom Death Tolls
Read Manor House 03 - For Whom Death Tolls Online
Authors: Kate Kingsbury
For Whom Death
Tolls
A Manor House
Mystery
By Kate Kingsbury
Copyright 2002 by Doreen Roberts Hight
Cover by Rachel High
CHAPTER
1
"Cricket?" Violet smacked a plate down on the kitchen table with such vehemence, the knives and forks rattled. "What in blue blazes do a bunch of Americans know about playing cricket?"
"Not much, I'm afraid." Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton stared at the pile of bacon, sausages, and scrambled eggs steaming on her plate. For a moment the blissful aroma made her light-headed. "Violet, how on earth did you manage all this? Didn't we use up our ration of eggs this week?"
Violet grunted and moved back to the stove. "Just because there's a bloody war on doesn't mean we have to starve."
"Yes, but—"
"You'd better start eating if you don't want it to get cold."
Elizabeth obediently picked up her knife and fork. She
knew that dismissive tone well enough not to argue with her housekeeper. Violet had been with the Hartleigh family since Elizabeth was a child. Sometimes it was hard to ignore that note of authority. There were times when Elizabeth felt as if their positions were reversed, and she was the one obeying orders. Fortunately she considered Violet a dear and trusted friend, one of only two employees left since the good old days when her parents were still alive and a dozen or more servants bustled around the Manor House.
These days no one bustled. Especially Martin, the aging butler, who at that moment was standing in the doorway of the spacious kitchen, sniffing the air like a curious bloodhound.
"Great heavens," he muttered, "it smells like a seaside café in here."
Violet glared at him. "I don't want none of your lip, either, Martin, so sit down and shut up."
Martin lowered his chin and peered over the top of his glasses at Elizabeth. "Good morning, madam. I trust you are feeling well?"
Elizabeth smiled fondly at him. "Quite well, Martin, thank you."
Martin approached the table at his usual snail's pace. "May I have your permission to join you at the table, madam?"
"Of course you may, Martin."
"Thank you, madam."
"Not at all, Martin."
Elizabeth waited for her butler to arrange himself on his chair. The maneuver took a full minute or two. He had barely settled himself before Violet slammed a plate in front of him.
"There," she muttered. "Get that lot down you."
Martin gazed at the plate in awe. "I say, Violet, this is quite a feast."
"It is, indeed," Elizabeth agreed. "I was just saying the same thing."
Violet brought a third plate to the table and dropped onto her chair. "If you both spent less time talking and more time eating, we could all enjoy the meal."
Martin looked offended. "My, we're just the teensy bit liverish this morning, aren't we?"
Violet sent him a look that would have stopped a German tank in its tracks.
Martin wisely picked up his utensils and attacked his breakfast.
Elizabeth waited until everyone had cleared their plates and Violet had served tea before asking gently, "Violet, is something bothering you? Is there anything I can do to help?"
Violet mumbled something she didn't catch.
Elizabeth sighed and tried again. "Violet? I can't help if I don't know what it is you're worrying about."
After a moment of frowning silence, Violet put her cup back in its saucer. "It's that Mr. Forrester chap. He rang again this morning. He's staying at the Tudor Arms tonight and he wants to come over here on Monday to talk to you about that tour of the Manor House. Polly answered the telephone."
"Oh, goodness." Elizabeth's own cup clattered in its saucer. "What did she tell him?"
"She told him she'd ring him back and let him know if it was convenient. Then she told me, and now I'm telling you."
"Well, we could certainly use the money."
Violet picked up her teaspoon and sloshed it around in her tea, even though she'd already stirred it at least once. "I know, Lizzie, I know. It's just that it's going to make things awkward, what with the Americans here now."
"They're awkward, all right," Martin said, nodding his
head so hard, his glasses slipped down his nose. "Those devils can't even speak English."
"I'm not talking about the American officers," Violet said irritably. "At least they keep themselves to themselves. Which is more than I can say about some people around here."
"Well, we shall just have to manage." Elizabeth laid her serviette on the table. "As I said, we need the money. We still haven't had the water pipes seen to in the east wing, and the chimneys have to be cleaned in the next week or two. Not to mention the broken tiles on the roof, or the crack in the window in the great hall—"
"You don't have to remind me." Violet's scrawny shoulders lifted in a shrug. "If that miserable sod of a husband of yours hadn't gambled away every penny you had, we wouldn't be in this fix."
"Ex-husband," Elizabeth said carefully. "And there's no point in bringing that up. Blaming Harry for our troubles and carrying on about it is not going to solve anything. We have to put all that behind us and concentrate on what's ahead."
"You're right." Violet rubbed her forehead with bony fingers. "I'm sorry, Lizzie, I'm just out of sorts today. George and Gracie have been such a bother, and it's just one thing after another."
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair. "Oh, dear, what have they done now?"
Martin frowned. "George and Gracie? Are they guests? Not more infernal American airmen, I hope." His sparse white eyebrows lifted. "Good Lord, madam! You didn't hire more staff? I hope they know not to interfere with my duties."
"They chewed a leg of the dining room table and peed in the library," Violet said, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
Martin looked astounded. "I say, that's a bit much, isn't it?"
Elizabeth felt a stab of guilt. Ever since Major Earl
Monroe had given her the boisterous puppies, there had been one disaster after another, according to Violet. Elizabeth had promised her she'd take care of the frisky animals, but her duties as lady of the manor kept her busy most of the day, and by the time evening had come, the puppies had worn themselves out and were peacefully sleeping.
"Why don't you ask Polly to keep an eye on them?" she suggested.
Violet sniffed. "Ask Polly? All that girl can think about is Yanks. Ever since those officers from the American air base have been billeted in this house, Polly has gone around with stars in her eyes and her head stuffed full of daydreams. She spends more time in your office playing secretary than she does cleaning the house. Might as well ask Martin to take care of the little blighters."
Martin looked confused. "Take care of whom? I have enough to do in the house without having to worry about extra staff to train. Especially if they are predisposed to using the library as a lavatory. Disgusting, that's what I call it. Wouldn't be tolerated in my day."
Elizabeth patted Martin's hand. Her butler had long ago ceased to be of any real help in the mansion. His advanced age had left him somewhat senile and often confused, but both Violet and Elizabeth went to great pains to convince the old gentleman he was still an essential member of the staff. "We're talking about the new puppies, Martin. George and Gracie, remember? The ones Major Monroe was kind enough to give to me."
Martin shook his head. "Germans, bombs, Americans, dogs in the house . . . what is this world coming to, that's what I want to know. The master will be most displeased about this. Most displeased. I hate to think what he will say."
"The master's dead, Martin." Violet pushed herself
away from the table and picked up her cup and saucer. "He and Lady Hartleigh died in a London air raid, remember? God rest their souls." She glanced at Elizabeth. "Sorry, Lizzie."
Elizabeth smiled. "It's quite all right, Violet."
"You are mistaken, Violet. I see him walking the great hall every morning." Martin dabbed at his mouth with his serviette.
Violet's birdlike eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. "There he goes with the blooming ghosts again."
Martin folded his serviette into a neat square. "One simply has to wonder what will come next."
Violet wagged a finger at him. "I can tell you what's next. A cricket match, that's what. Between the Americans and the English soldiers. Now, if that doesn't give us all something to worry about, I don't know what will."
Elizabeth finished the last drop of her tea and put down her cup. "I really don't know why you are so upset about it. The town councillors thought it was a splendid idea. You know how much trouble there's been between the British army and the Americans . . . not to mention a few of the villagers as well. We thought this was a way of smoothing things out between them. You know . . . friendly rivalry and all that."
Violet jammed her fists into her bony hips. "Smoothing things out."
Elizabeth beamed and nodded.
"The way you smoothed things out at the dance in the town hall? If I remember, Ted Wilkins lost at least two dozen beer tankards he'd brought from the Tudor Arms, Rita Crumm lost the heels of her best sandals, and Bessie Bartholomew got a big dent in the bun warmer from the bakeshop in that fight."
Elizabeth's smiled faded. "Well, I admit what happened was unfortunate, but there was a lot of pent-up frustration. After all, the men of the United States Army
Air Force are risking their lives every day for us, and yet they are treated like lepers by some of the villagers, and especially by the British soldiers. If we can engage them in some friendly physical challenges, I'm hoping they can work off some of that resentment."
Violet tossed her head. "Spare me the speeches, Lizzie. I've heard it all before. All I'm saying is that getting the Limeys and the Yanks together is like putting a bunch of cats in a room full of rats. Someone is going to get hurt, and I don't want it to be you."
"I thought you said they were dogs," Martin said, shaking his head in bewilderment.
"You worry too much. Everything will work out beautifully, you'll see." Elizabeth put every ounce of confidence she could muster into her voice, but she couldn't ignore her pang of uneasiness. Violet's concerns had some grain of validity. She would simply have to exert more control over the proceedings, that was all.
"Have you had a chance to visit Henrietta Jones yet?" Violet lowered a pile of dishes into a sink full of soapy water and began rattling them around.
Grateful for the change of subject, Elizabeth said quickly, "Not yet. I haven't had time. But it's almost time I collected the rent, so I'll pop down there first thing Monday morning. Since she's a new tenant, I thought I'd take along a basket of provisions, though now that we have rationing, that might be more difficult than it was in the old days."
"I might be able to find a few things we can spare." Violet wiped her hands on her apron and headed for the larder. "Poor old soul, I feel sorry for her. Deaf as a doorpost, she is. Can't hear a word anyone says to her. Must be hard living alone in all that silence."
"That could be a blessing for some," Martin said dryly.
Elizabeth paid him scant attention. She was too busy wondering how Violet could so readily offer food from
her larder for a complete stranger, when up until now she had jealously guarded the tightly rationed supplies with all the fervor of a tiger protecting its young.
Since it was Saturday night, the racket inside the public bar of the Tudor Arms had risen to an ear-splitting level. A noisy argument had broken out between the players at the dartboard, and a group of American airmen stood around a tinny-sounding piano bellowing their own bawdy version of a popular song while the enthusiastic pianist did his best to pound the keys right through to the floor.
Peering through the thick haze of cigarette smoke, Polly watched her sister carry two glasses over to the burn-pitted table. She usually looked forward to her gin and orange, especially since she wasn't supposed to be drinking. She wasn't even supposed to be in the pub. Ma would kill her if she found out. Probably kill Marlene, too. Her sister was supposed to be keeping an eye on her.
Polly took the glass from Marlene's hand and drank a large gulp of the orange liquid. The gin burned on the way down. Normally that felt good. Tonight nothing felt good.
"I hope you're not going to sit around here moping all night," Marlene said, plopping herself down on her chair. "That would be a bloody waste of good gin."