Elizabeth climbed off her motorcycle with as much haste as decorum allowed and hurried to help Bessie squeeze through the gate.
“Thank you, your ladyship,” Bessie said, panting with exertion. “I thought I was going to drop it. Really I did.”
“I do hope you’re not expecting to carry this all the way back to the Bake Shop.” Elizabeth grasped one edge of the box.
“Well, I was going to try.” Bessie looked doubtfully at the motorcycle. “I carried it down here.”
“But it’s uphill all the way back.” Elizabeth shifted the weight of the box against her hip. “What’s in here, anyway?”
“China. The ladies from the Housewives League brought glasses and plates, and I brought the cups and saucers from the tea shop.”
“Oh, my.” Elizabeth wavered, then said cautiously, “I could run them up in the sidecar of my motorcycle, if you like.”
Bessie’s face shone with relief. “Oh, would you? Thank you, m’m. I’d be ever so grateful, really I would. I still have to pack up the linens and the cutlery.”
“Right. Let’s get this in… here.” Elizabeth delivered the last word on a groan as they heaved the box into the tiny sidecar. “It only just fits,” she said, as she wiggled the box to make sure it was secure.
“Thank you, m’m. I’ll get back inside and finish clearing up. Some of the ladies came to help me and I don’t want to leave them working on their own.”
Elizabeth climbed aboard the motorcycle, kicked the engine to life, and tucked her pleated skirt securely under her knees. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said, shouting over the roar of her engine. “I’d like a word with you before you leave.”
Bessie nodded, waved her hand, and scurried back to the hall.
Mindful of her precious cargo, Elizabeth rode cautiously up the hill to the High Street. Housewives loaded down with heavy shopping bags waved to her as she passed, and she nodded in response, too anxious to raise a hand from the handlebars. It was with a sigh of relief that she finally braked to a halt in front of Bessie’s Bake Shop.
Two of Bessie’s assistants rushed out to help her unload the cumbersome box and wrestle it into the shop. The heavenly aroma of freshly baked bread and buns was almost irresistible, but anxious to talk to Bessie before she left the hall, Elizabeth reluctantly returned to her motorcycle.
To her surprise, she saw George and his long-suffering partner Sid hovering around the vehicle when she emerged onto the street. The two constables were deep in conversation, which they broke off the minute Elizabeth arrived within earshot.
They greeted her in unison, and just a little too hastily. She knew at once they had been talking about her. “Am I parked in the wrong place?” she asked, knowing perfectly well that unlike North Horsham, there were no restrictions in the High Street in Sitting Marsh.
“No, no, your ladyship,” Sid hastened to assure her. “It was just that me and George-”
“Were discussing the weather,” George interrupted loudly.
Sid sent him a puzzled look. “No, we weren’t. You were saying as how-”
“Don’t you have something urgent to do at the station?” George said, glowering at Sid.
Sid raised his eyebrows. “It’s Sunday,” he said, his voice rising in protest.
“Ho, ho,” George said, sounding a little like a bored Father Christmas. “A policeman’s work is never done, isn’t that right, your ladyship?”
“Quite,” Elizabeth murmured. She knew quite well it was only a matter of time before Sid blurted out what George was trying so hard to keep quiet. “I admire dedicated men such as you two. Always on duty. Makes one feel so terribly secure.”
George eyed her warily, while Sid beamed. “That’s so nice of you to say, Lady Elizabeth. I was just saying to George, I was-”
George loudly cleared his throat. “I’m sure her ladyship has better things to do this afternoon than stand around listening to your idle chatter, Sid.”
“Not at all,” Elizabeth said brightly. “I’m always interested in what Sid has to say. He can be so terribly informative at times.”
“Don’t I bloody know it,” George muttered.
Sid preened. “I do me best, your ladyship.”
Elizabeth smiled at him. “You certainly seemed concerned about something just now. I do hope I don’t have a flat tire.”
Apparently oblivious of George’s fierce glare, Sid’s hearty laugh rang out. “Oh, no, m’m. Nothing like that. George was just saying he hoped the inspector got here and arrested the murderer before you got in the way again.”
This time George’s frantic coughing failed to cover up Sid’s words. Elizabeth gave him a frosty look. “Why, George, I thought you always appreciated my efforts to solve your cases for you.”
George’s face turned beet red, and he ran a finger around the collar of his shirt as if it were choking him. “Yes, I do. Most of the time, that is. But this time we know who the murderer is, and I wouldn’t like to see you go to all that trouble of asking everyone questions like you always do when it ain’t… isn’t necessary.” He coughed again, then added as an afterthought, “Your ladyship.”
Elizabeth fixed him with a stern eye. “You know who murdered Brian Sutcliffe?”
“Yes, m’m.”
“Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to inform me, just so I won’t get in your way.”
George looked as if he were about to cry. “I can’t do that, your ladyship. You know I can’t.”
“Course you can,” Sid said cheerfully. “You know who it is, Lady Elizabeth. It’s the chap what’s staying at the manor, isn’t it. Mr. Rodney Winterhalter is the one what killed Mr. Sutcliffe. Isn’t that right, George?”
CHAPTER 6
Polly stood at the front door of the Manor House and tugged on the bell pull for the third time. She was fast losing her patience. She was dying to show her letter to Sadie, and that old fool, Martin, was taking his blinking time opening the door for her.
If the kitchen door wasn’t locked she could get in that way, which is the way she usually went in. But on Sundays Violet took the afternoon off and locked the kitchen door, so here she was, hopping up and down waiting for Martin to wake up and let her in.
She was about to hang on the bell rope again when she heard the first bolt sliding back. At last. What the bloomin’ heck had he been doing? Another bolt scraped open, then the huge iron key grated in the lock. Two more bolts to go and the latch to lift. All she could hope was that he didn’t fall asleep again before he got them all open.
At long last the door inched open a crack. Her impatience exhausted, Polly gave the door a shove. To her dismay, she heard a muffled exclamation, then a thud. The old boy must have fallen down again. He was always falling down these days. It was a wonder he didn’t break his bloomin’ neck.
She pushed the door, but it refused to budge any further. Getting anxious now, she put her mouth up to the crack. “Martin? Are you all right?”
To her relief, his crusty voice answered her. “No, I am most definitely not all right. The blessed door just attacked me.”
She sighed. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“Not at all. I bounce off doors and land flat on my back for the pure fun of it.”
“Can you get up?”
“If I could get up,” Martin said peevishly, “do you think I’d still be lying here like a beached whale? Who are you, anyway?”
“It’s Polly.” She waited, and when no response seemed forthcoming, added helpfully, “Polly Barnett.”
“I am not acquainted with Polly Barnett.”
“Yes, you are,” Polly said, rolling her eyes skyward. “I’m Lady Elizabeth’s assistant.”
“Lady Elizabeth is not at home, so she doesn’t need your assistance.”