Kate Kingsbury - Death Is in the Air

Elizabeth stared at Violet in disbelief. “That young boy killed someone? Are you sure?”

Violet shrugged. “That’s what Marlene said. He cut her head wide open, Marlene said. Told me to warn Polly not to ride her bike home past the woods tonight.”

“I can’t believe it. He seemed so harmless.”

“He wasn’t bloody harmless when he was dropping them bombs over London, now was he?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I know what you’re saying, Violet, and I really can’t explain how I feel. I suppose it’s the fact that the young man was following orders when he dropped those bombs. Killing an innocent young woman in cold blood is something else entirely.”

“Once a killer always a killer, that’s what I say. Those Germans are all alike.” Violet picked up the saucepan and began scrubbing the inside of it with a scouring pad. “I should have thought you of all people would know that, seeing as how your own parents died.”

Elizabeth stared at the remains of her porridge. Her appetite had disappeared, and she had no interest in cleaning up the bowl. It was hard to explain, even to herself, her sympathy toward the young German pilot.

Like everyone else, her image of a German bomber pilot was a vicious monster with hideous features hidden beneath the goggles and mask of his flying helmet. The young man standing shivering on the village green the day before was so far removed from that picture Elizabeth found it hard to believe he could actually fly a plane, let alone be responsible for dropping bombs on innocent women and children.

“I’m going to ring George Dalrymple,” she announced, getting up from the table. “You know how gossip gets distorted, especially after news has been passed around that hairdresser’s shop.”

Violet didn’t answer her, but Elizabeth could tell she didn’t approve by the way she banged the saucepan down on the draining board.

There was no answer from the police station in the village, and Elizabeth hung up the telephone. “I think I’ll take a run down there,” she announced.

“Now, Lizzie, don’t you get yourself involved in all this. Remember what happened the last time you started messing around with the murder of that poor Beryl Pierce. Almost got yourself killed, you did.”

“Violet,” Elizabeth said reasonably, “you know very well I was never in any real danger. In any case, I’m not getting involved. I’m merely going down to the police station to find out the truth of the matter. If indeed there is a killer on the loose in our woods, I want to know about it. Arrangements will have to be made to take Polly home tonight.”

“Perhaps your major will run her home in his Jeep,” Violet said, giving her a sly look.

“He’s not my major.” Elizabeth pulled her cardigan from the back of the chair and slipped it on. “I’ll let you break the bad news to Polly. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“So what am I going to do about dinner?”

“Buy the meat. If the major can’t join me, it will keep overnight in the larder. It’s getting quite cool at night now.”

“All right. But I’d hate to waste good meat. If he doesn’t come by tomorrow night, we’ll have to eat it all ourselves.”

“We can always make sandwiches for the Americans.”

Elizabeth almost laughed at Violet’s dour expression. She might have done so if her mind wasn’t still on a frightened young man hiding in the woods in fear of his life. Somewhere a mother was anxiously waiting, not knowing if her son was dead or alive. That was the trouble with war; the innocent on both sides suffered.

Martin met her in the upper hallway and peered at her above the thin gold rims of his glasses. Ever since he’d first worn the spectacles several years ago, Elizabeth had never seen him look through them. “Are you leaving, madam, or returning home?”

“I’m leaving, Martin. You didn’t happen to have seen Major Monroe about this morning, I suppose?”

The wrinkles on Martin’s crumpled face deepened. “Major? I don’t remember ever seeing a major about here. You don’t mean that scoundrel, Colonel Hartleigh, do you? He’s not here, I hope.” Martin’s head swiveled from side to side.

“No, no, I don’t mean Uncle Roger. I meant the American major. Have you seen any of the Americans?”

Martin drew himself up as straight as his spine would allow. “No, madam. Nor do I care to see them.” He raised his hand and placed it over his mouth, then whispered around it, “They are the reason he came back, you know.”

Elizabeth frowned. Martin’s remarks often didn’t make sense. Nevertheless, she hated to ignore them just in case he was trying to say something important. “Who came back?”

“Your father. I saw him as clearly as I can see you. He doesn’t like these foreigners in his house. That’s what he’s trying to tell us.”

The sounds of muffled engines caught Elizabeth’s attention, and she instantly forgot about Martin’s ghost. She reached for the massive door handle, but Martin uttered an exclamation and shuffled forward.

“Please, allow me, madam.”

Elizabeth forced herself to wait until he grabbed hold of the handle with both hands and slowly tugged the door open. She could hear the slamming of doors outside and guessed the Americans were about to leave. If she hurried, she might just catch Major Monroe before he left.

The gap between the front door and the frame widened, and she squeezed herself through, earning a look of reproof from Martin.

“I say, madam!” he protested.

“Sorry, Martin, but I’m in a bit of hurry. Don’t close the door for a moment. I won’t be but a jiff.” She sped down the white marble steps and across to the courtyard, where a Jeep was already rolling across the gravel to the long, curving driveway.

The young men saluted her as she rushed by, and she returned the greeting with a cheerful wave of her hand. One Jeep stood alone in the shadows of the ancient walls, engine revving as the man behind the wheel prepared to pull out.

To Elizabeth’s relief, she recognized the rugged features of Major Monroe. Hurrying forward, she called out to him. “Major? I wonder if I could have a moment?”

He turned his gaze on her, and as always she felt a quiver deep inside when she confronted his steel-blue eyes. “Ma’am?”

She felt awkward looking into that penetrating gaze and instead concentrated on the doors of the stables behind him. “I was wondering, Major, if you would care to have dinner with me tonight, here at the manor. There are several things I’d like to discuss with you, and I thought you might enjoy some home cooking for once, since you’re always eating at the base and that must get really tiresome, although Violet isn’t exactly a gourmet chef-actually she’s not even a very good chef-but she does her best, and it should be a fairly decent meal, that’s if-”

“Ma’am?”

Relieved to have an excuse to draw breath, Elizabeth returned her gaze to Major Monroe’s face and found amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I’d be delighted to have dinner with you, Lady Elizabeth, and I’d enjoy sampling Violet’s home cooking. On two conditions.”

She eyed him warily. “All right. What are they?”

“One, this would be an informal dinner, and two, you stop calling me Major and start calling me Earl.”

She would dearly love to call him by his Christian name, but somehow when she tried, the name seemed to stick in her throat. Maybe because she had never known anyone called Earl before, and it seemed so odd to give a commoner, and an American yet, a title of nobility. After all, she was the daughter of an earl, and one did not take that lightly.

If she were truly honest with herself, however, she’d be forced to admit that the reason she had so much difficulty referring to him by his first name was the air of familiarity such a procedure evoked. Though she’d die rather than admit it, Major Earl Monroe of the United States Army Air Force was far too attractive to risk sharing the least bit of familiarity.