Kate Kingsbury - Death Is in the Air

“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.

After a moment she opened the gate and walked inside the large fenced area, where several carthorses grazed while they waited for their turn in the fields. Ignoring them, she paused in front of Maurice. He sat staring in the direction of the woods, his gaunt features calm with his usual blank expression.

“Maurice?” Elizabeth waved a hand in front of him. “I’d like to talk to you. I want you to tell me about Amelia.” She watched him closely, but not a flicker of emotion touched his pallid face. His hands, however, clenched in tight fists, and she knew that he’d been told the sad news.

She tried again. “I know Amelia was a special friend. I’m so very sorry. It must hurt a lot.”

The passive mask remained unbroken.

“Maurice, I know you don’t want to talk about it. But people are gossiping, and we have to find out the truth, or innocent people could get hurt very badly. You might be able to help me if you can tell me what you know.”

She stared into his empty eyes, searching for a sign that he understood. She’d seen him so often talking to the horses, cows, and pigs, whispering in their ears, gentling them with his large, clumsy hands. Once she had found him crouched over a wounded bird, tears coursing down his face as he tried to pick up the poor thing. Nothing in the world could convince her that this gentle, caring person could attack an innocent young woman and hack open her head. He just wasn’t capable of such violence.

“I’ll find out who did it, Maurice,” she said quietly. “I’ll find him and I promise you I’ll see he’s punished.”

She turned to go, but not before she’d seen a single tear squeeze out of the boy’s eye and roll slowly, unheeded, down his cheek. Disturbed by the image, she made her way back to the house.

Sheila greeted her at the door, her face flushed and agitated. “Did you find out anything?” she demanded before Elizabeth could speak. “I saw you talking to Maurice. What did he say? He’s upset by all this. He liked Amelia. He doesn’t understand what happened.”

“I believe he understands more than you think,” Elizabeth said quietly. “I just wanted to warn you that P.C. Dalrymple might want to question Maurice. I think you should prepare him for that.”

Apprehension burned in Sheila’s eyes. “I’ll do the best I can. I can’t believe the police would go bothering my son. He doesn’t know anything about it.”

“They have to follow procedures,” Elizabeth said, echoing George Dalrymple’s favorite comment.

“Everyone knows that Nazi pilot killed poor Amelia. If George had an ounce of sense in that thick noggin of his, he’d be out looking for him in the woods, instead of upsetting everyone out here. What did the girls tell you, anyhow? Nothing, I bet. Nobody knows anything.” Sheila appeared to make a great effort to calm her angry torrent of words. “Begging your pardon, m’m, but it makes me cross when the police don’t do their job right.”

“Well, I’m sure they’ll do their best,” Elizabeth said cheerfully.

A shout from across the yard turned her head. Maisie stood a few yards away, waving a spade in the air. “I found it, Mrs. Macclesby. All nice and clean. Thank you!”

Sheila stared at Maisie as the girl tramped across the yard, carrying the spade over her shoulder. “I never know what these modern girls are going on about half the time,” she muttered.

“Well,” Elizabeth said, “I’ll be leaving you alone now to get on with your work.”

“Thank you, Lady Elizabeth.” For the first time that day Sheila Macclesby managed a weak smile. “I appreciate you bringing the sad news to me.”

“And I appreciate you allowing me to talk to the land girls.” Elizabeth turned away, then paused. “You were right, of course. They knew nothing.”

“I knew they didn’t, m’m. It’s like I said. It was that Nazi pilot. Everyone knows that.”

Not everyone, Elizabeth thought as she made her way back to her motorcycle. The land girls were all convinced Maurice had killed Amelia. Not one of them had seemed particularly sad about it. In fact, so far Maurice was the only one who had shed a genuine tear over the young woman’s death.

Elizabeth climbed aboard her motorcycle and bounced on the kick start. The engine fired, and she rumbled out of the farmyard and onto the road, turning over in her mind what she had learned that day.

Much as the land girls disliked the deceased woman, she didn’t think any of them were responsible for her murder. Pauline seemed to have the sole motive, but according to the other two girls, she hadn’t left her bed that night. That left Maurice and the German pilot with a motive for murder. There was one other person, however, who could have been responsible for Amelia’s death-Lieutenant Jeff Thomas.

Right then, he seemed the most likely candidate, since she found it so hard to believe that the other two were capable of such a violent crime. Then again, it was all too easy to jump to conclusions.

Maybe she was too ready to believe the best of people. That had certainly been her downfall in her disastrous marriage. What she was certain of was that this detective business was a lot more complicated than she’d realized. No wonder George and Sid had so much trouble with it.

Speaking of whom, she reminded herself, she needed to talk to the constables and ask them to talk to Jeff Thomas. He was apparently the last person to see Amelia alive. Since it appeared he had been quarreling with her that night, he was most certainly at the top of the list of suspects. Unfortunately her connections did not stretch to His Majesty’s service, and she could hardly go waltzing into an army camp demanding to speak to one of their soldiers. She’d have to leave that to the constables and hope they did their job.