Having satisfied herself that she would learn no more from them, Elizabeth trudged back to the farmhouse. She was now faced with the unpleasant task of questioning Maurice and she wasn’t looking forward to it.
Much against her principles, she couldn’t help hoping that it was the German pilot, after all, who had brutally attacked the young girl and left her broken body in the woods. He at least had some excuse. Something told her, however, that there was much more to this murder than a simple case of someone desperate to evade capture. Much as she hated to admit it, her instincts pointed in the direction of Sheila’s unfortunate son. If he was indeed the killer, it would very likely break Sheila’s heart.
CHAPTER5
“Madam will be entertaining a guest in the dining room for dinner tonight,” Violet told Martin, in the vague hope that he would contribute something useful to the occasion.
Martin looked up from his seat at the kitchen table. “Not before time. We haven’t had any guests in the dining room for years.”
“Not since the master and his wife have been gone.” Violet took down a crystal glass from the cupboard above the gas stove. “It will be nice to use the good china again.”
“It will be most satisfying to see madam seated in her rightful position at the dining room table.” Martin reached for the newspaper and folded it neatly. “I do not feel comfortable when she sits with us here in the kitchen. Her father would be most displeased.”
Violet finished polishing the glass before answering him. “I’m afraid he’d be displeased about a good many things. Thank Gawd he’s in his grave and can’t see what’s going on in this house.”
“Ah, but that’s just it.” Martin began rising to his feet. It was a long and tedious process, irritating to watch. Violet turned her back on him, but even so, she had seen the performance so many times she could picture it in her mind.
Slap. That was Martin’s hands hitting the table, palms down. The chair creaked when its feet scraped across the floor. It creaked again when his backside rose a few inches then plopped back on the seat.
Violet waited, counting the three groans that accompanied his attempts to push himself upright. Finally, when she heard the air rush out of his lungs in a heavy sigh, she knew he was on his feet and resting heavily on his hands. One more groan and he would be mobile again.
“That’s just what?” she demanded, wondering why she bothered. Martin’s comments were at best meaningless, and at worst maddeningly mysterious.
“I beg your pardon?”
Violet turned to find him peering at her over the top of his glasses. Both she and Lizzie had long ago given up explaining to the silly old fool that he’d see a lot better if he’d just look through the lenses instead of over them. As it was, for all the good they did him perched on the end of his nose like that, he might just as well put them on a cow. “You said ‘that’s just it.’”
“I did?” Martin’s white eyebrows met over the bridge of his specs. “What was I talking about?”
“How the blazes should I know?” Violet flapped her cloth at him. “I never know what you’re talking about, do I. You’re always muttering about something or other that doesn’t make any sense.”
Martin drew himself up as straight as his bowed shoulders would allow. “I might not make any sense to you, Violet, but I make perfect sense to myself.”
He was probably right at that, Violet thought grimly. “Well, we have to get the dining room table set for dinner. See if you can find Polly and tell her I’ll need her help tonight. She can stay late for a change. With all this talk of murder, I forgot to tell her about it when I saw her.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Her concern was well founded.
Martin clutched his chest in the region of his heart and staggered. “Murder? Where? Here? No! When? Who? Who? Who?”
“For Gawd’s sake, Martin, stop hooting like a bloody owl. It wasn’t anyone we know, so you can just forget about it.”
“Forget about it?” Martin ran a hand over his sparse wisps of hair. “Forget we have a murderer running around? We could all be slaughtered in our beds. Where is madam? It’s not safe for her to be running around on her own like this. In my day young women were chaperoned everywhere.”
“In my day, too.” Deciding that he’d survived the shock, she took down another glass from the cupboard. “But things change, Martin, and we have to change with them.”
“Not me,” Martin declared stoutly. “I’m too old to change.”
“If you ask me, you’re too bloody old to breathe,” Violet said crisply. “But that doesn’t stop you trying. Now get on with you and see if you can find Polly.”
“Very well, but it wouldn’t hurt you to say please once in a while.”
“Please.” She watched him shuffle toward the door an inch at a time.
He was almost there when he paused and slowly edged his body around to face her again. “Was it one of those blasted Americans?”
She blinked. “What?”
“The person who was prematurely deprived of his life.”
Irritated by his annoying habit of talking like a dictionary, Violet’s voice rose a notch. “No, it wasn’t. So stop worrying about it.”
“Violet, I shall worry about it if I so wish. I demand to know who is the unfortunate victim of this abominable crime.”
Giving up, Violet shrugged. “It was one of them land girls, that’s who. Someone found her body in the woods. Mind you, the way some of them run around flaunting themselves, it’s no wonder one of them came to a bad end.”
“Oh, my, oh, my.” Martin shook his head so hard his specs slid off. More by luck than judgement, he caught them before they fell to the floor and stuck them back on his nose. “Well, at least it didn’t happen here at the manor. I did wonder if perhaps the master had a hand in it.”
“A hand in what?”
“The murder.” Martin swayed forward on his feet and touched his lips with a withered finger. “He doesn’t like them, you know.”
Violet crossed her arms and tipped her head to one side. “The master’s dead, Martin. Killed by a bomb in London. Blown to bloomin’ bits, you might say. They buried what was left of him in the churchyard. You were there. Even if he had risen from the dead, he’d be walking around without a head, so you wouldn’t be able to bloody recognize him if you saw him.”
Martin turned pale. “I say! Steady on, Violet. That’s a ghastly thing to say about the master. He hasn’t lost his head at all. I saw him this morning, walking along the great hall, and his head was right where it should be.”
“Well, it’s too bad yours isn’t,” Violet snapped, having reached the end of her patience. “Now, are you going to stop all this silly blabbering about ghosts and find Polly for me, or do I have to find her myself?”
Martin sniffed. “There’s no need to take that tone of voice with me. I’m quite capable of finding the wretched girl. Though what good it will do I can’t imagine. She spends more time gazing at herself in mirrors than taking care of her duties.”
And that, Violet thought as she watched Martin shuffle out the door, was the most intelligent thing he’d said that morning.
Elizabeth crossed the barnyard and headed for the stables. Since Maurice wasn’t in the fields, he was probably mucking out the stalls. There was no sign of him there, however, and she wondered if he’d gone back to the house for an early dinner. She was on her way back there when she spotted him over in the paddock, sitting on the top fence with his back to her.
The long grass muffled her footsteps as she approached. Not wanting to startle him, she called him by name, but he gave no sign of having heard her. Even when she reached his side and gently touched his arm, he remained as still as a rock.