Fire When Ready (Manor House Mystery) (11 page)

"Are you sure someone was out to murder McNally?" Earl asked, helping himself to a large slice of the cold pork pie.

"Well, you have to admit, the locked door does raise some valid questions."

"I guess. Are there any suspects?"

"Not yet." Elizabeth crunched on a juicy slice of apple. "I've only just arrived at the conclusion that it wasn't an accident. I think it's likely that whoever wrote those threatening letters to Mr. McNally is responsible, so I need to find out who that person is."

"What do the constables say about all this?"

"According to the fire chief's report, the fire was caused by a cigarette accidentally thrown into a bucket of oily rags. George is sticking with that and refuses to listen to any theories I might have. I think he just doesn't want to be bothered with an investigation unless he's forced into it."

"Sounds familiar."

Elizabeth sighed. "To be honest, I'd just as soon look into it myself. That way I won't be treading on any toes."

"The problem with that," Earl said, leaning back in his chair, "is that it usually lands you in trouble."

"I know." She smiled at him. "But now that you're back,
I don't have to worry about that. If I do run into a problem, I'm quite sure you'll be there to rescue me."

He didn't answer her smile. "You can't be sure about that. It's not as if I'm around all the time. Sometimes it'll be days before we'll see each other."

She leaned forward and patted his hand. "Don't worry, Earl. I'll be careful."

Before she could withdraw her hand, he turned his up and grasped her fingers. "You'd better promise me that. I didn't come all the way back here to Sitting Marsh to see something bad happen to you."

Yes
, she thought, with a little rush of anticipation,
things had changed between us
. It was subtle, but there, underlying every word, every movement, an unspoken promise, a sense of belonging, even if it wasn't acknowledged as yet. Life had suddenly, miraculously, blossomed into something wonderful.

This was wartime. Time to live every day as if it were their last, as it might very well be. He had returned to her, but he had also returned to the danger the American airmen lived with every day. She would be a fool to waste this time fretting about morals and protocol and heritage. She would enjoy what they had, and if, when the time came, the obstacles proved too formidable for any permanent relationship between them, she would at least have these memories to enjoy. It was more than she'd expected a few short hours ago.

"I promise," she said softly. "And you promise me the same."

For his answer he lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her fingers. "You got it, your ladyship."

Earl left for the base immediately after their meal, with a promise that he'd be moving his things in that evening. As
soon as his Jeep had disappeared, Elizabeth pulled on her coat and scarf and went out to the stables for her motorcycle.

Desmond was puttering around with a garden fork, even though the ground had to be as hard as a brick. Elizabeth suspected her gardener was just trying to look busy, since there wasn't that much to be done on the grounds in the midst of winter.

"You best be careful, m'm," he called out as she wheeled her motorcycle out of the stables. "Looks like another storm coming in off the ocean. It'll bring us another few inches of snow, I'm reckoning."

"Thank you, Desmond. I won't be long." Elizabeth eased her leg across the seat, wishing fervently she could wear trousers as so many of the young women were these days. So much warmer and more convenient.

Trousers, however, were still considered in the poorest taste for women, and a real lady would not be caught dead in them, as Rita Crumm was fond of saying.

Thinking of Rita Crumm usually put Elizabeth in a bad mood, but she was far too happy today to let even that harbinger of aggravation get her down. Even though the slate-gray clouds hid the sun, the world seemed brighter, cleaner, fresher, and full of hope and delicious anticipation.

She was smiling in the teeth of the bitter wind as she sailed down the coast road to the bay, where McNally had been renting one of the fishermen's cottages. The quaint little houses were actually owned by a building contractor in London and managed by Fred Shepperton's wife, Lydia.

Elizabeth sincerely hoped that the farmer's wife would not be attending to McNally's cottage that afternoon. If so, she would have to come up with a good excuse as to why she was there.

To her immense relief, the cottage appeared to be empty
when she rapped on the door. It was also locked, which presented a bit of a problem. Trotting around to the back of the house, Elizabeth tried all the windows. Fortunately she was shielded from the rest of the cottages by tall, thick laurel hedges.

The one-storey cottages had been renovated and updated by the contractor, and boasted indoor plumbing. Most of the older homes outside of the village relied on well water and outdoor facilities.

The lavatory window, as so often was the case in Elizabeth's experience, wasn't latched. It was a simple matter to lever it up high enough to accommodate her body. Reaching the sill to ease herself through the narrow space was another matter, however.

Her quick survey of the small garden was rewarded by the sight of a wooden window box that had been discarded and left on a compost heap in a shaded corner beneath a forlorn-looking oak tree. After shaking off a pile of acorns, Elizabeth carried the box to the window and placed it on the ground.

She had to stand it on end to give herself enough height, and it wobbled precariously as she climbed up and took hold of the sill. With a push of her feet she heaved her shoulders through the space. The window box fell over with a dull thud, but she was too intent on getting the rest of her body through the window and over the sink to worry about it then.

Entering a lavatory headfirst was not something she'd recommend, she reflected, as she struggled to unhook her skirt from the water taps. She could only pray that no one was able to see her legs waving wildly out of the window while she attempted to propel herself over the sink.

Once safely on the floor, she sat there for a moment or
two to catch her breath. This had seemed such a good idea at the time, but now that she was actually inside a locked cottage that didn't belong to her, she was beginning to realize the repercussions of being discovered in such an unethical position.

The best thing she could do was find the letters and get out of there as quickly as possible. Belatedly she realized that Douglas McNally might not have kept the offending letters, but now that she was there she should at least look for them.

A quick search of the front room revealed nothing, and the kitchen was equally unavailing. Elizabeth opened the door of the single bedroom and peeked inside. Obviously McNally hadn't been expecting visitors. While the front room and kitchen were reasonably clean, save for dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, his bedroom was another matter.

Clothes had been dropped onto the floor and left there. The bedclothes were flung back, as if he'd leaped out of bed in a hurry. The dressing table was piled high with books, papers, empty cigarettes packets, a half-filled bottle of Scotch, a camera, and several pairs of socks in need of darning. Feeling more uneasy by the minute at her unwarranted intrusion, Elizabeth sifted through the mess. There were several envelopes buried under the mound of books, and she drew them out.

Reading someone else's private post seemed even more meddlesome to her than sneaking into the cottage. Telling herself that the end would possibly justify the means, she slid the letter from the first envelope.

It was from a business associate of McNally's, and Elizabeth thrust it back in the envelope and replaced it under the books. The next one was a bill from the electric company, and a third was a letter asking McNally for a job at
his factory. Elizabeth was intrigued to see it was written by Ray Muggins. According to his list of accomplishments, he seemed very qualified for the responsible job. No wonder McNally had hired him.

She thrust that letter back with the others and looked at the next one. This one bore an address in Scotland. Apparently McNally had deemed it important enough to bring with him. Her curiosity getting the better of her, Elizabeth took a peek at the letter inside.

It was written by Fred Shepperton, and Elizabeth's breath quickened as she read it. The farmer was angrily accusing McNally of misleading him. Apparently Shepperton had been warned by someone that the munitions factory would contaminate the land it was on and the pollution could spread to adjoining land. He was insisting that McNally cancel the deal.

Frowning, Elizabeth replaced the letter. Had McNally been able to reassure Shepperton that he'd been misinformed, or had the deal gone through despite Shepperton's demands? If the latter, the farmer had a strong motive to get rid of the factory and perhaps McNally with it.

Putting that letter aside for the moment, Elizabeth looked at the next letter. Her hand shook with excitement as she saw the envelope merely bore McNally's name and not his address.

Quickly she withdrew the sheet of paper inside and scanned the contents. The letter was brief and to the point. In capital letters it demanded,
CLOSE THE FACTORY AND TEAR IT DOWN OR YOU WILL DIE A HORRIBLE DEATH
.

Elizabeth shuddered. He had, indeed, died a horrible death. She found three more letters, all saying more or less the same thing, all written by a firm hand.

After finding no more among the pile, she picked up Shepperton's letter again. The handwriting was quite different, more clumsy and uneven than the neat printing of the unsigned letters. Even so, she placed it with the others in the pocket of her skirt and headed for the door.

She was halfway across the room when she heard a sound from somewhere in the cottage. Something fell with a tinkling of broken glass, followed by a harshly whispered curse.

There was no way, Elizabeth decided, that she could explain what she was doing in the dead man's bedroom. Not without arousing suspicions and alarm in the village. Her mind racing for a feasible excuse, she stared at the bedroom door and prayed whoever had entered the cottage had not come to make up the bed.

CHAPTER

8

Marge Gunther climbed the steps to the Manor House, wishing she'd worn her thick furry mittens instead of the thin gloves she'd knitted for herself. She'd walked up from the village, and her hands and feet were so cold they were numb.

She was beginning to think it was a big mistake to come up to the manor to get names on her list for the petition. When she'd first thought of it, she'd been excited about the brilliant idea. She, Marge Gunther, would be the only one to have the signature of the lady of the manor on her petition!

Rita had given her the cottages in the bay as her assignment, but who listened to fisherman's wives, anyway? Her petition would mean so much more if she could get Lady Elizabeth and her household staff to sign it. Just think how important that would be.

Now, however, after having climbed the hill in the bitter wind, Marge wished she'd gone down to the bay after all. She'd be back home by now, enjoying a nice hot cup of tea and one of the currant buns she'd bought from Bessie that morning.

Bessie's baking was fit for a king, and although no one was supposed to take the food out of the shop, the stuff being on rationing and all, Marge always managed to smuggle something out in her handbag so she could enjoy it at home later.

After all, everyone knew the constables bought stuff and took it back to the police station, even though they weren't supposed to; and if the bobbies could blinking well do it, then so could she.

Marge tugged on the bell rope, knowing she'd have a few minutes to wait before Martin took the long, torturous journey from his room, then up the stairs to the front door. Unless he was somewhere in the vicinity, which had never happened the few times she'd found an excuse to call on the manor.

Today was no exception. Shivering in the cold, Marge moved closer to the front door to escape the wicked bite of the wind. Her fingers were so numb she'd have trouble finding the pencil to give to her ladyship. Then again, Lady Elizabeth must have plenty of pens and pencils lying around her office.

Must be nice to have money
, Marge thought, leaning her back against the door. Though living in a big house like this would have its problems. It must be drafty, for one thing. Take a lot of coal fires to heat this place up. And the housework! Just think how long it would take to clean a place this big.

Having decided she'd waited long enough, Marge
tugged on the bell rope again. She waited until the hollow echo of the bell had faded away, then gave it another tug for good measure.

Almost immediately she heard the sound of bolts being drawn back and latches lifted. Impatiently she waited, until the door opened a crack and Martin's wavering voice demanded, "May I ask who's calling?"

"It's me, Marge Gunther." Marge gave the door a hefty push. "I've come to see her ladyship."

A brief yelp of pain answered her and she winced. "Sorry. I didn't know you was standing that close to the door."

Martin's face appeared in the gap, one hand holding his nose. Tears stood in his eyes as he glared at her. "Her ladyship is not at home."

Disappointment made Marge's tone sharp. "Well, I suppose you'll have to do, then."

"I beg your pardon?" He sounded as if he had a bad cold, no doubt due to the hold he had on his nose.

"It's this petition." Marge held out the sheet of paper. "I would like you to sign it, please."

Martin regarded the paper with suspicion. "What is it?"

"It's a petition to close down the factory for good. It's an eyesore and . . . and . . ." she struggled to remember everything Rita had told them to say in order to get people to sign.

"A factory?" Martin looked confused.

"The one what burned down," Marge said impatiently. She was dying to go to the lav. The idea of asking this toffee-nosed bugger if she could use their lavatory was daunting, but when nature called this loudly she didn't have much choice.