Manor House 03 - For Whom Death Tolls (14 page)

Her short visit to the police station to talk to Constable George Dalrymple didn't help at all.

"Can't get near the bloomin' place, your ladyship," George grumbled. "After the initial investigation, they suggested Sid and I leave it all up to them to find the murderer. Like we were stupid or something. I'll have them know I was a bloody good policeman in my day. Just because I was retired before the war broke out doesn't mean I've lost me marbles, now does it."

"Not that you had that many to start with," Sid observed from the doorway of the barren little office.

"Shut up, Sid." George gave Elizabeth a smile of apology. "He got up too early this morning, your ladyship. Gets a touch bilious, he does. Been in the toilet half the morning."

Sid's cheeks flamed red, but fortunately he kept his retort to himself.

Having heard more than she wanted to know, Elizabeth said hurriedly, "Did you see anything in the bell tower that might have helped discover who killed Kenny Morris?"

George looked wary. "Even if I did, m'm, I wouldn't be at liberty to tell you."

Well used to playing this game, Elizabeth said brightly, "Of course not, George. I wouldn't dream of putting you on a spot like that."

"Thank you, your ladyship. Much obliged, I'm sure."

"There's just one thing I'd like to know, George. Of course you don't have to tell me anything, but if I'm right, you could sort of nod, perhaps, or shake your head?"

"He's very good at nodding and shaking, your ladyship," Sid said, with a snide glance at his partner. "Especially when he doesn't know what the heck he's talking about. Which is just about all of the time."

George gave Sid a look that should have cut him in half. "Don't you have work to do?"

"All right, keep your hair on." Sid nodded at Elizabeth. "TTFN, your ladyship."

Elizabeth stared after him. "TTFN? What on earth did that mean?"

George shook his head. "Oh, it means ta-ta for now. It's from Itma, one of them shows on the wireless."

Thoroughly mystified, Elizabeth stared at him. "
Itma?
"

"Stands for
It's That Man Again
. Tommy Handley, his name is." He grinned. "It's a really good laugh, your ladyship."

"Really," Elizabeth said faintly. "It seems that the Americans are not the only ones speaking an odd form of English these days."

"Sign of the times, I suppose, m'm."

Deciding it was time she got back to business, Elizabeth said briskly, "Yes, well, about this unfortunate incident in the bell tower. I understand a knife was found near the body."

George's expression turned wary again. Slowly he nodded his head.

"I don't remember seeing it when we discovered Kenny's body. Was the knife close to the body?"

Her answer was a firm shake of the head this time.

"Far away?"

George lifted his hand and wagged it from side to side.

"Would you say five feet? Ten? Fifteen?" Finally getting the answer she needed, she added quickly, "The drops of blood on the floor—were they close to where the knife was found?"

"Pretty close," George said, then clamped his mouth shut.

"Nothing else was found?"

George shook his head.

Not sure what she was going to make of this information, Elizabeth thanked him and left. If only she could get into the bell tower and take a good look around, she might be able to come up with an idea of where to look next. Right now, there didn't seem to be much else she could do.

On the wild chance that the guard had left the bell tower, she rode down to the churchyard and parked her motorcycle outside the gates. Her hopes were dashed immediately by the sight of the uniformed officer seated in the doorway, his nose buried deep in a book.

At least he couldn't stop her wandering around the churchyard, she decided, though what she expected to find after her last fruitless search she had no idea. Nevertheless, she set off down the gravel path, trying not to look too conspicuous when the American officer glanced up at her.

The setting sun shone brightly, despite the lateness of the hour. Now that most of the leaves had departed from the trees, they looked quite forlorn. Birds' nests, long abandoned by their occupants, dotted the bare branches, starkly visible now that their green, leafy camouflage had disappeared.

Gazing up at a magpie nest jammed in between two branches of an ancient gnarled oak, Elizabeth was intrigued to spot something gleaming in the untidy wad of mud and twigs. The scavenger bird had a penchant for making off with valuables, and her curiosity was immediately aroused.

The tree stood very close to the back wall of the church, with its branches extending over the roof. The nest was about halfway up the tree, easily accessed with the help of a convenient drainpipe and several sturdy, low-lying limbs protruding near the base of the thick trunk.

Directly below the target branches, a ground-level basement window also offered a foothold, since its thick frame extended a couple of inches from the wall.

Elizabeth glanced around and assured herself she was completely alone and hidden from the road, as well as the vicarage and the bell tower. Then, hitching up the skirt of her wool frock, she placed a foot on the window ledge, grasped the drainpipe, and hauled herself into the tree.

She had only to clamber up three branches before she could reach inside the nest. Her fingers encountered broken eggshells, acorns, and something she didn't want to inspect too closely, before she grasped something smooth and oblong. Withdrawing the object, she caught her breath. It was a beautiful silver comb, the kind one wore in the hair on special occasions. Obviously quite old, with its ornate handle studded with tiny diamonds, it had to be worth a lot of money, not to mention sentimental value to its owner.

Judging from the gray hairs still attached to the teeth of the comb, whoever had lost it was apparently elderly, and probably devastated by the loss.

Holding the precious object tightly in one hand, Elizabeth began the descent to the ground. Unfortunately she snagged one of her gloves on a small spike, and in an effort to free herself, tore a hole in it, dropping the comb in the process.

Irritated with herself, she climbed down from the tree and brushed the pieces of bark from her dress. The brown stains left behind would no doubt evoke intense irritation from Violet, especially since the dry cleaners in North Horsham had closed down almost a year ago.

After searching for a few minutes around the base of the tree, Elizabeth spotted the comb lying in the deep grass at the side of the basement window. As she bent to retrieve it, she noticed several gray hairs trapped in the top of the window frame, apparently deposited there by the wind. The comb must have slipped out of the owner's head as she walked along the path that led close to the wall around the church. The magpie, having been attracted by the sun sparkling on the diamonds, would have swooped down and carried the comb back to its nest.

It was such a distinctive piece that Elizabeth hoped the vicar might recognize it as belonging to one of his parishioners. She found him in the garden of the vicarage, raking the leaves from his trim lawn.

After greeting her effusively, he took the comb from her and examined it. "I don't remember seeing it on any of my congregation," he said, turning it one way and then the other. "I do have many elderly worshipers, of course. I'd like to keep it for a while, if I may. Perhaps I can find the owner. It's such a lovely piece."

Elizabeth smiled. "It is, indeed. Thank you, Vicar. I hope you find to whom it belongs. I'd hate to lose it if it were mine."

"I'll do my best." The vicar peered at her, his eyes almost invisible behind his thick glasses. "I suppose you know that one of your Americans has been arrested for the murder in the bell tower."

Elizabeth wasn't sure she liked her uninvited guests referred to as "her" Americans, but she merely nodded. "Sam Cutter, yes. He happens to be a good friend of my assistant, Polly Barnett."

The vicar raised his shaggy white eyebrows. "Polly is your assistant now?"

"It's a long story, Vicar. The point is, no one who knows Sam Cutter believes he is capable of such a violent deed."

"Ah, who knows what we are capable of when driven by one of the seven deadly sins. Man is an unpredictable creature, Lady Elizabeth, and while I hesitate to single any one out, I must confess that I find these American fellows a different breed, indeed."

Depressed, Elizabeth had to agree. Still, just because they were different didn't mean they were any more capable of murder than anyone else, she argued silently on her way back to the manor. Take Earl, for instance. He was utterly unlike any man she had ever met—in his manner, in his attitude, and especially in the way he treated a woman.

Unlike the men with whom she had previously been associated, her ex-husband in particular, Earl made her feel that he was truly interested in what she had to say, that he respected her opinion, and that he considered her an equal, a person in her own right, rather than simply an appendage of her lord and master. She appreciated that very much. It was a large part of the reason she was so taken with him.

If all Americans treated British women that way, she reflected, as she sailed up the long, tree-lined driveway, it was really no wonder the British men were being left
out in the cold. And no wonder that Polly was so devastated by Sam Cutter's arrest.

She still had no clear idea of whether she considered Sam innocent or guilty. As the vicar had said, who knows what a man is capable of when under duress. One thing she did know. She was not about to let an innocent man be punished for a crime he didn't commit, or allow the true culprit to escape.

Somehow she had to find the proof she needed. If Sam was guilty, then he would have to accept the consequences and Polly would just have to live with it. But if Sam Cutter was innocent, then it was up to her to find out exactly what went on in the bell tower that night. Not only because Earl had asked her for help, but because if there was one thing in the world she would not tolerate, it was injustice. Especially in her own village.

CHAPTER

11

Elizabeth spent the next day organizing the preparations for the Stately Homes tour on Saturday. It had been at least a year or two since anyone had toured the Manor House, and every room, every nook and cranny had to be inspected, thoroughly cleaned, and rearranged, if necessary.

Heavy clouds had brought rain, and the damp chill in the house seemed to penetrate to the bone. Violet rushed around, huffing and puffing like an aging dragon, while Polly grumbled and complained at having to spend her time doing housework instead of being where she wanted to be—in the office.

Bessie had passed on Elizabeth's request for help to her three assistants, and Janet, an exuberant young brunette with aspirations of living in America, had jumped at the opportunity. She spent more time bombarding Polly with questions about the Yanks than paying atten
tion to her duties, adding to Polly's frustrations.

Desmond kept popping in to ask Elizabeth what she wanted pruned, thinned out, cut down, or left alone, and left behind huge muddy footprints in the kitchen, while Martin disappeared altogether, no doubt to escape the massive disruption of his daily life.

Elizabeth, under pressure from Polly's muttering, put in a call to the Labour Exchange in London. The woman who answered her assured her she would have no trouble in filling the position of housemaid at the manor, and promised to call her as soon as she had some applicants ready to come down for an interview. Wondering what she had let herself in for, Elizabeth returned to the fray.

By nightfall the Manor House was sparkling, and ready to greet its visitors the following day. In honor of the occasion, Violet laid the fires in all of the fireplaces, and set light to them all.

The warmth creeping through the hallways warmed every corner on every floor, and lifted Elizabeth's sagging spirits. As she sat warming her toes in front of the glowing coals in the quiet peace of the library, she wished she'd had the courage to invite Earl to share a glass of sherry with her. There was something so romantic about a fire in the fireplace, which was precisely why she hadn't given in to her inappropriate impulse.

Instead she rested her aching muscles, and watched the puppies sleeping in front of the flickering flames. Tomorrow would be another long day. And still she wasn't any closer to solving the mystery of the bell tower murder.

The heavy downpour had dwindled down to a light shower or two by the next morning. Seated at her usual place at the breakfast table, Elizabeth stared in surprise as Martin entered the kitchen. He was attired in a black morning coat that had probably fit him well a half cen
tury ago, but was now sagging pitifully on his frail frame.

"Good morning, madam." He patted his chest and peered at her over his glasses. "Quite impressive, even if I do say so myself."

"You look like you've been put through a wringer and hung out on a line to dry," Violet observed from her spot at the stove.

Elizabeth frowned at her, then smiled at her butler. "You look very nice, Martin. To what do we owe all this unaccustomed magnificence?"

Martin raised his thin eyebrows. "Have you forgotten, madam? The Manor House has been prepared for weekend visitors. The master and Lady Wellsborough will be expecting me to look my best to receive their honorable guests. I shall not let them down."

"Oh, crikey," Violet muttered. "Here he goes again."

"There won't be weekend visitors, Martin," Elizabeth said gently. "My parents died two years ago, remember? You look very impressive, I must say, but I really think a suit would be more appropriate for the occasion."

He looked puzzled. "And what occasion would that be, madam?"

Elizabeth sighed. "Sit down, Martin, and have your breakfast. You'll feel better when you eat."

Martin bowed as well as his aging bones would allow. "May I have your permission to join you at the table, madam?"

"You may, Martin."

"Thank you, madam."