Manor House 03 - For Whom Death Tolls (8 page)

Polly's first thought was how lucky she'd been. One of the men was Sam, and he was heading straight toward her. As usual, her stomach flipped at the sight of him in the forest green uniform that was so much more glamorous than the baggy khaki uniforms the British soldiers wore.

The next second she realized something was wrong. Although Sam was only feet away now, he acted as if he hadn't seen her. He was staring straight ahead, his face as gloomy as the statue of the Roman gladiator on the back terrace. Her gaze slid to the men on either side of him, and now her stomach seemed to drop to her
knees. No wonder Sam was looking grim. The men were military policemen, and they had him by the arms.

With a little cry she shot forward. "Sam! What's happening? Where are they taking you?"

He flicked a glance at her, a look so full of despair, she felt sick. Running to keep up with the three men, her throat closed and her voice cracked when she tried to speak again. "Sam?"

He gave her a slight shake of his head, and one of the MPs said sharply, "This man is under arrest. Please stay out of our way."

"Under arrest? No! What for? You can't arrest him. He's done nothing bad."

Sam spoke then, his voice so cold, it froze her heart. "Go away, Polly. Leave me alone."

Polly stood stock-still in the middle of the great hall, watching the man she adored being marched through the door and out of sight. Then, with one hand over her mouth to stifle her sobs, she fled to the kitchen.

Inside the Tudor Arms, Elizabeth was surprised to see the evening crowd already beginning to build up. A group of locals sat in the corner of the lounge bar, chased out of the public bar, no doubt, by a bunch of rowdy American airmen playing a boisterous game of darts.

Alfie, the bartender, raised his hand in a salute as Elizabeth approached the counter. Two young British soldiers turned their heads to glance at her, then went back to their beer.

"Good evening, Alfie." Elizabeth perched on one of the bar stools and tried to look as if she belonged there. Thanks to her upbringing, she still felt terribly out of place on the rare occasion she visited the Tudor Arms. Her father would be enraged to know she set foot in such a place, much less accepted the free glass of sherry Alfie slipped her.

But then again, this ancient building with its low, heavily beamed ceilings and stone walls had seen many changes over the centuries. Although this era in particular was probably the most startling, what with American servicemen taking over the public bar, women frequenting the place as often as the men, and the lady of the manor sipping sherry at the lounge bar alongside two privates in His Majesty's army. Times had changed, indeed.

After enjoying a sip or two, she took advantage of the lull in customers and beckoned to Alfie.

He hurried over at once. "Is everything all right, your ladyship? Sherry to your liking?"

At the mention of her title, the two soldiers sent curious glances her way. She pretended not to notice. "The sherry is wonderful, Alfie, as usual," she assured him. "You must get me a bottle or two of that brand the next time you order."

"I'll try, m'm," Alfie said, looking worried. "But you know how things are. Wartime, you know. Hard to get the stuff anymore. We haven't had a bottle of brandy in here since last Christmas."

Alfie's comment was obviously for the benefit of the two soldiers seated at the bar, since Elizabeth knew very well that he kept a bottle or two under the counter for his special customers.

"I know," she said solemnly. "Dreadful war. Still, one has to make sacrifices, I suppose."

"We do, indeed, m'm. Still, it's nothing compared to the sacrifices young men like these two have to make." He nodded his head at the soldiers, who immediately looked embarrassed. "Tell you what," he said to them, "why don't you take your beer over to that table over there, and I'll bring you a drop of whiskey to wash it down. On the house."

The soldiers looked surprised, but scrambled off their stools and headed for the table.

"Thank you, Alfie," Elizabeth said warmly. "I did rather want to talk to you in private."

Alfie nodded. "I knew that's what you wanted. If you'll just hang on a minute, your ladyship, I'll be right back."

She waited for him while he took the whiskey over to the soldiers. Someone in the public bar had begun pounding on the piano—loudly and quite badly. A deep voice bellowed out the latest war song, and soon the rest of his companions had joined in.

No longer concerned about being overheard, Elizabeth wasted no time in asking Alfie about Kenny Morris. According to the obliging bartender, the fight with Sam Cutter wasn't the first Kenny had been involved in at the pub.

"Bloody troublemaker, he was," Alfie said, busily polishing a glass tankard with a small yellow cloth. "Knew it the first time he came down. I told Ted, I did. That lad's going to end up in trouble, I said. Just you wait and see." He nodded slowly up and down. "And I was bloomin' right."

"You were, indeed," Elizabeth agreed. "I don't suppose you remember who else the young man fought with before his encounter with Sam Cutter?"

Alfie raised his chin and closed his eyes. "Can't think right now, m'm. There's been so many down here. I think it were with some of them English blokes, though. Not local, mind. Most of them what fight are soldiers from the camp in Beerstowe, or down from the Smoke. That's where them two came from." He nodded at the table with the soldiers. "Down from London this morning."

Elizabeth shook her head in amazement. "What brings soldiers all the way down here from London? There must be plenty of quiet places for a drink closer to the city."

"It's the American base, m'm. Wherever there are
Americans, there are girls. That's what the blokes are looking for. Hoping for the leftovers, I suppose, seeing as how the Yanks always get the first pick."

"Oh, dear," Elizabeth murmured. "No wonder there are so many hostilities between them."

"You're right, there. Though in the case of that Morris chap, it weren't so much fighting over the women with him. He was just a nasty piece of work, that's all. Though I do believe it was a girl what started his last fight, funny enough." He slid a wary glance at Elizabeth, who interpreted the reason right away.

"It's all right, Alfie. I know Sam was trying to protect Polly. She told me."

"Oh, well, that's all right, then." Alfie hung the tankard on a hook above his head. "I wouldn't want Polly to think I was the one what spilled the beans. She's got a lot of spirit, that girl. And a temper to match, so I've heard."

Elizabeth wondered if Alfie knew that Polly was only fifteen. It seemed a little late to worry about that now, especially since her sixteenth birthday was just a few weeks away, in which case she would be legally allowed to drink in the pub. "Well, I must be going," she said, sliding off her stool. "If you should hear anything more about Kenny that you think might be useful, I'd appreciate it if you would give me a ring at the house."

Alfie nodded. "Will do, your ladyship. Though I reckon them American investigators know a lot more than we do. Maybe you should ask them."

"I don't think they are likely to tell me anything," Elizabeth said with a smile. "Thank you so much for the excellent sherry, Alfie."

"My pleasure, m'm. Come again soon."

She slipped out of the door, thankful to breathe the clean, fresh air from the ocean. The smoke inside the pub was thick enough to choke her, and irritated her throat. Thank goodness she had never been tempted to
try a cigarette. Neither Violet nor Martin had ever smoked, though her father had enjoyed a pipe now and then. Since he'd been gone, the library and study had smelled considerably fresher, though Elizabeth had often detected the smell of tobacco in the great hall, even before the Americans moved in.

Perhaps Polly had taken up the habit, or maybe the ghost Martin was always talking about smoked a pipe. The thought made Elizabeth uncomfortable. She didn't, for one minute, believe that Martin actually saw the ghost of her father walking the great hall, as he'd claimed so often, but there had been a time or two when she had felt an intense chill, even a strange presence up there that she'd found impossible to explain.

Roaring up the hill on her motorcycle toward the Manor House, she chided herself for her fanciful thoughts. She was allowing Martin's ramblings to influence her, she decided. Of course it was chilly in the great hall. It was cold everywhere in the house these days. The kitchen was the only cozy place in the entire building.

She could put it off no longer. The day after tomorrow, she would tackle the chimneys and get them swept. That having been decided, she sailed up the long, winding, tree-lined driveway to the mansion, wondering what illicit nourishment could possibly be waiting for her in Violet's well-stocked kitchen.

As usual, Martin took forever to respond after she'd tugged on the bellpull. Finally the solid oak door swung inward on its heavy iron hinges, as if pulled by an invisible hand. Peering into the dark hallway, Elizabeth said tentatively, "Martin?"

His muffled voice came from behind the door. "One moment, madam. I can't find my glasses."

"They are probably on your head," Elizabeth said, as she stepped inside. "That's where they usually are when you can't find them." Not that he needed them, since he
never looked through them, anyway. She'd wasted her breath too many times reminding him of that fact.

"Bless my soul, indeed they are." The door began to close while Martin clung to the handle and shuffled to keep up with it. "I'm very glad you are home, madam. There has been all sorts of trouble since you left."

"Trouble?" Elizabeth unpinned her hat and handed it to him. "What kind of trouble?"

Martin stood looking at the hat as if he'd never seen one before.

Sighing, she took it from him and hung it on the hall stand. "Perhaps I'd better ask Violet." A sudden thought struck her and she looked at Martin in alarm. "Is something the matter with Violet?"

Martin looked surprised. "Violet? No, madam. The last time I saw her, she was her usual rambunctious self."

Elizabeth relaxed.

"Polly is somewhat distressed, though."

"Polly?"

"Yes, madam."

"What's the matter with Polly?"

"That I couldn't say, madam."

Elizabeth turned to head for the stairs.

"Some disaster with the Americans, I believe."

With a cold chill of apprehension Elizabeth ran lightly down the steps and along the hall to the kitchen.

She heard Polly wailing well before she threw open the door. The girl sat on a chair by the fireplace, weeping into a large handkerchief, while Violet stood at the stove, pouring boiling water into a large china teapot.

She looked up as Elizabeth burst into the room. "Oh, there you are, Lizzie," she said, apparently forgetting she wasn't supposed to be using the childhood name in front of Polly. "Thank goodness you're back. Maybe you can do something with her." She nodded at Polly, who sat hugging herself and rocking back and forth.

"Whatever is the matter?" Elizabeth patted Polly's shoulder and studiously avoided the first question that came to mind. She asked the next obvious one instead. "Has something happened to your father?" Polly's father was somewhere overseas in the army. There had been far too many of the dreaded telegrams arriving lately.

Polly shook her head, and uttered a shuddering sob.

"It's that young man she's so barmy about," Violet said, carrying a steaming mug over to the shivering girl.

"Sam Cutter?" The growing feeling of dread swelled to a tide of terror. She was terrified to ask, but she had to know. "Was he shot down? Do they have any news? Do you know who was with him?"

Polly put the mug down on the hearth, swallowed hard, and stammered, "No, m'm, he's not shot down or nothing. He was here a little while ago." She struggled to contain another sob, but her words came out on a wail, anyway. "He's been
arrested
!" A burst of fresh weeping followed her startling remark.

Still shaking from the fright of thinking Earl might have gone down with Sam Cutter in his plane, it took a moment or two for Elizabeth to understand what Polly had said.

Violet's tongue clicked with indignation as she poured another cup of tea. "I knew it was a mistake to take in those Americans. Harboring a murderer in the Manor House, indeed. Your parents would turn in their grave, not to mention having my guts for garters for letting you get yourself into this kind of trouble."

Ignoring Violet for the moment, Elizabeth cleared her mind. "Sam Cutter has been arrested? Why? On what charge?"

Polly choked and spluttered, and finally found her voice again. "They think he killed Kenny Morris."

Elizabeth looked at Violet, who shrugged. "I saw Major Monroe in the hall, and asked him why they'd taken
the young man away. He told me Sam Cutter was being held on the base on suspicion of murder."

"I don't believe it. Did Earl say why they think the squadron leader killed Kenny Morris?"

"Ask Polly. She knows why."

Polly stopped crying and dashed away her wet tears. "He didn't do it, m'm, I just know he didn't. He was gambling that night with Kenny and some other blokes . . . and they all lost a lot of money and Kenny started a fight 'cos he said the dealer was cheating and Kenny and Sam got into it 'cos Sam was mad at Kenny and then Kenny broke a beer bottle and Sam cut his hand. He had it all bandaged up the next day and I asked him about it and that's when he told me what happened." She stared up at Elizabeth with puffy, red-rimmed eyes. "It's the truth, m'm, I know it. My Sam wouldn't hurt no one. Honest he wouldn't."

Elizabeth took a moment to sort through Polly's disjointed sentences. Finally she said slowly, "The police think Sam cut his hand with the knife that was dropped when Kenny was killed, is that it?"

Polly uttered yet another shuddering sigh. "I s'pose so, m'm." She started wailing again. "Oh, what am I going to do? I can't stand the thought of him being arrested and sent back to the States, I really can't."

Violet rolled her eyes at the ceiling.