Fire When Ready (Manor House Mystery) (6 page)

"Who told you that?" Marge demanded over a chorus of muttered exclamations from the rest of the group.

"Never mind who told me." Rita preened, obviously enjoying her importance. "I just know, that's all. So we need to draw up a petition. After what's happened down there, we shouldn't have any trouble convincing people that a place like that is a death trap."

Nellie Smith sat on the floor in the corner and gritted her teeth. She was dying to say something sarcastic, but she'd already been suspended once from the Housewives League for mouthing off at Rita, and these days she did her best to keep her thoughts to herself. But it was hard. Especially at times like this, when that silly old cow acted like she was the only one who knew anything.

Nellie sighed. She didn't know why she bothered coming back to the League. She wasn't even a housewife, her not having been married and all. She'd had boyfriends, plenty of them. But none she'd wanted to marry. Besides, most of the young ones were off fighting the war.

In any case, British blokes were too bossy. From what she'd seen, they treated their wives like blooming slaves, expecting you to wait on them hand and foot and never a thank you at that. As for the Yanks, all they wanted was a good time. Come the end of the war, they'd be off back to America, with never another thought for the girls they left behind. She'd seen that happen already. To Polly Barnett for one.

Nah, women were better off without men. Much better off. Bloody savages, that's what men were. No better than
the ape men in the Stone Age. All they wanted a woman for was to cook their meals, clean their houses, wash their clothes, and satisfy them in bed. Well, here was one woman who wasn't going to fall into that trap.

Nellie stretched out her legs to ease the ache in her knees. That's why she came back to the League. Much as she hated Rita Crumm and her lording over everyone, she liked a lot of the ladies and they were good company. Women friends, that's what really counted. Women friends didn't let you down and make you feel worthless.

"Are you with us or not, Nellie Smith?"

Nellie started, realizing that several pairs of eyes were fixed on her face. " 'Course I am," she said stoutly. "Let's get rid of that rotten factory once and for all."

Having missed breakfast, Elizabeth was ravenous when she arrived back at the manor, and she made straight for the kitchen. Violet was busily whisking batter in a bowl, and frowned at her when she sat down at the table. "Where did you get to this morning?"

"I overslept, and I needed to go into town to talk to George about the fire last night."

"Well, you shouldn't go without your meals, Lizzie. Not good for you."

"I'll make up for it now. I'm starving."

"Well, I tell you." Violet waved a whisk at Elizabeth. "I know at least one person who'll be glad to see that factory burnt down."

"I don't think it's completely burnt down." Elizabeth reached into the glass bowl of walnuts on the kitchen counter. "Though I understand one end of it has been badly damaged."

"Well, they won't be able to work in it, that's for certain."
She took the bowl away from Elizabeth. "If you eat these now there won't be enough left for the cake."

Elizabeth brightened. "We're having cake?"

"No, we're not having cake. This is for the bake sale the Housewives League is putting on at the vicarage. They're going to auction off cakes, and the money's going for more knitting wool so they can knit some more socks and scarves for our troops in the trenches."

Although she refrained from saying so, Elizabeth hoped that Violet's inadequate baking had not become common knowledge in the village. If so, her cake would not be raising too much money. "Who did you mean when you said someone would be happy to see the factory burn down?"

Violet poured her batter into a baking tin and set the empty bowl on the table. "Jack Mitchum, that's who. He was really upset about his wife going to work there and leaving him all alone to run the butcher shop. He's short-handed as it is, with his butchers all been called up; and with Millie gone it would have been really hard for him. Now she won't be able to work there any more, so he'll have her back in the shop with him. That'll make him happy, I bet."

Elizabeth stared at her. "Did Jack tell you this?"

"No, Marge Gunther told me. You know what a gossip she is. Apparently Jack and Millie had a big row about it right there in the shop in front of the customers and all. Marge said Jack was furious. Even accused Millie of having a crush on Mr. McNally, but Millie stood up to him. Told him she was going to do what she pleased and there was nothing he could do about it." Violet opened the oven door, letting out a blast of heat. "Good for her, that's what I say." She slid the pan of batter into the oven and shut the door. "There. That should be done in an hour or so."

"I hope you didn't use my egg ration for that cake," Martin said from the doorway.

Elizabeth, deep in thought, jumped at his voice.

"If you must know, Mister Miser," Violet muttered, "I didn't use eggs. I used the wartime recipe for the cake."

Martin sniffed and shuffled into the room, closing the door behind him. "Then I shan't eat any of it."

"It's not for you, so there." Violet turned on the tap over the sink and rinsed her hands. "It's for the bake sale, so you won't get any anyway."

Martin clasped his hands together and gazed up at the ceiling. "Thank you, Lord," he murmured.

Violet huffed out her breath. "Keep that up and you won't get any lunch, neither."

Ignoring her, Martin shuffled over to the table. "Good afternoon, your ladyship. May I be permitted to join you?"

Well used to this little ritual, Elizabeth said absently, "By all means, Martin."

"Thank you, madam. Much obliged, I'm sure." With great deliberation, Martin seated himself at the table. "I was wondering, madam, what plans we have for tonight."

With effort, Elizabeth dragged her mind back to the immediate present. "Tonight?"

"Yes, madam. I assume we shall be seeking shelter, in the event the Germans may return to bomb us again."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Martin. I forgot you didn't know. There was no bomb. The fire and explosion at the factory was an accident." Or so the fire department was saying. Something slipped into Elizabeth's mind, but was gone again before she could grasp it.

Martin looked disappointed. "No bomb?"

"No, Martin. No bomb."

"You mean all that excitement last night was over nothing?"

"I'd hardly call it nothing. After all, two people died in that fire." She remembered again the shock she felt when George had told her Douglas McNally had died. His words came back so clearly.

She sat up straight and banged her fist on the table.

Martin rose an inch off his chair with a little shriek. "What the devil was that?"

Violet spun around from the sink and stared at her. "Lizzie? Are you all right?"

"I'm quite all right," Elizabeth assured them. "I've just remembered something, that's all. Something important." She glanced at the clock. "I won't have time to wait for lunch, Violet. I have to go to North Horsham this afternoon. I must leave right away." She started to get up from the table, forcing Martin to struggle to his feet.

Violet pushed her fists into her bony hips. "Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton! You know better than that. You've already missed one meal. The soup's about ready. You can at least sit down and eat it."

"I'm sorry, Violet. This won't wait. I'll be back as quickly as I can. I'll take one of those apples to eat on the way."

"You'll be ill if you don't eat," Violet grumbled, handing over an apple.

Elizabeth headed for the door. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"You'd better be back before it gets dark," Violet reminded her. "You can't ride that motorcycle with lights after blackout, and you won't be able to see without them."

"That's why I need to go now." Elizabeth let the door swing closed behind her and hurried up the steps to the front door. It would take her the best part of an hour to get
to North Horsham on her motorcycle. She would have to be back by half-past four to beat the blackout. That gave her plenty of time to find Dave Meadows and talk to him. It would have been far quicker to ring him on the telephone, but from past experience she'd found that she got more information from people when talking to them face to face. Watching a person's expressions often told her more than their words.

She couldn't imagine how she could have missed the significance of George's words last night. Then again, she'd been woken up from a deep sleep. Her mind had been hazy, and the shock of hearing the news of McNally's death had made everything else insignificant at the time.

But these particular words had stuck in the back of her mind.
Locked inside the office, they were
. It seemed an odd thing to her, that Douglas McNally would lock himself and the charlady inside his office. It could mean nothing, of course, but under the circumstances, it was enough to merit a conversation with the fire chief.

She dragged her reefer coat from its peg on the hallstand and thrust her arms into the sleeves. Peering into the mirror, she wound a bright red knitted scarf around her head and tucked the ends into her coat to secure it. She looked rather like a peasant, she reflected, but it was far too cold to wear a hat on a long ride. She could have done with a ride in Earl's Jeep.

That would have been just as cold, she reminded herself as she ran down the steps and into the courtyard. Except with Earl at her side, she probably wouldn't have noticed. Though it was just as well he wasn't there to see her bundled up like this. Not at all elegant. Drat the winter. How she longed for the sunshine and warmer weather.

Her nose felt like a lump of ice by the time she arrived in
North Horsham. It only took a couple of questions at the post office to find out the address of Dave Meadow's bicycle shop. Weaving her way in and out of the town's heavy traffic, she was thankful that she lived in a small village like Sitting Marsh. Having to deal with all these buses, motorcars, and lorries every day would make her a nervous wreck.

It didn't help to notice how many American Jeeps were on the road, either. Every time she saw one her stomach lurched, in spite of the fact she knew perfectly well that Earl would not be in any of them.

The bicycle shop sat at the end of a side street, much to Elizabeth's relief. She found a spot to park her motorcycle not too far from the shop, and it only took a few brisk steps to bring her to the front door.

A bell jangled loudly as she pushed the door open. An elderly gentleman with white hair and whiskers stood behind a bench at the rear of the shop. He looked up from the bicycle wheel he was working on and seemed surprised to see her. "Lady Elizabeth, isn't it? From the Manor House in Sitting Marsh?" He moved around the bench and came toward her. "Well, I must say this is a pleasant surprise. What brings you to my humble abode?"

Elizabeth smiled graciously. "Mr. Meadows, I presume?" She was used to strangers recognizing her. After all, her picture appeared in the newspapers often enough. She was, however, surprised that the young, virile fire chief she'd imagined should turn out to be quite so advanced in his age. Then again, had he been young and virile, he would probably be overseas fighting for his country.

"You presume correctly, your ladyship. What can I do for you? A problem with your bicycle?"

"Actually it's a motorcycle," Elizabeth informed him, rather enjoying the way his eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"But no, there's nothing wrong with it, thank you. I wanted to talk to you about the fire last night at the munitions factory. I understand you were in charge of operations."

"That I was." Meadows pulled a chair out from behind the long counter and gestured for her to sit. "Quite a mess that was. The flames had taken a good hold by the time we got there. Luckily McNally had the foresight to install water pumps, and it didn't take us too long to put out the fire."

"The constables tell me there was an explosion." Elizabeth sat down and pulled off her fur gloves.

"A few rounds of ammunition, that was about it. According to the people we talked to this morning, there wasn't much in the way of explosives lying around. McNally did his job when it came to safety precautions. Poor devil. Never knew what hit him, I reckon. Or that poor old charwoman for that matter."

"Everyone thought it was a bomb at first."

"Well, you can thank the night watchman for that." Meadows shook his head in disgust. "Swore he heard airplanes overhead right after the explosion. He was so sure it was a bomb. It wasn't until we got word from the military that no airplanes had been sighted in the area that we started looking for the real cause."

"So you know exactly what started the fire?"

"Well, we've got a pretty good idea. There was a bin of oily rags sitting underneath an open window all afternoon, waiting to be picked up by the dustmen. We think someone was smoking outside and tossed the cigarette away without putting it out. That strong wind we had yesterday must have sent it through the window without anyone noticing. Looks like it landed in the rags, smoldered all evening, and around midnight, boom! Up she went."

"Isn't it odd," Elizabeth said slowly, "to have a window open on a cold winter's day?"

Dave Meadows shrugged. "A young chap told me it was opened to let out the smell of the rags. He also told me several people were outside smoking that afternoon, since they weren't allowed to smoke inside the factory. It could have been anyone who tossed that cigarette in the window."

"And you have no reason to suspect it could have been done deliberately?"

Meadows pursed his lips and gave her an odd stare. "What makes you say that?"

Elizabeth stroked the fur backs of her gloves. "It was just something George said when he was telling us about the tragedy."

"Oh, yes, P.C. Dalrymple. I talked to him this morning. Bit of a pompous ass, if you don't mind me saying so."

Elizabeth smiled. "He's not very happy about being dragged out of retirement. He's rather grudging about his job, I'm afraid."