“That’s just what?” she demanded, wondering why she bothered. Martin’s comments were at best meaningless, and at worst maddeningly mysterious.
“I beg your pardon?”
Violet turned to find him peering at her over the top of his glasses. Both she and Lizzie had long ago given up explaining to the silly old fool that he’d see a lot better if he’d just look through the lenses instead of over them. As it was, for all the good they did him perched on the end of his nose like that, he might just as well put them on a cow. “You said ‘that’s just it.’”
“I did?” Martin’s white eyebrows met over the bridge of his specs. “What was I talking about?”
“How the blazes should I know?” Violet flapped her cloth at him. “I never know what you’re talking about, do I. You’re always muttering about something or other that doesn’t make any sense.”
Martin drew himself up as straight as his bowed shoulders would allow. “I might not make any sense to you, Violet, but I make perfect sense to myself.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Her concern was well founded.
Martin clutched his chest in the region of his heart and staggered. “Murder? Where? Here? No! When? Who? Who?
“For Gawd’s sake, Martin, stop hooting like a bloody owl. It wasn’t anyone we know, so you can just forget about it.”
“Forget about it?” Martin ran a hand over his sparse wisps of hair. “Forget we have a murderer running around? We could all be slaughtered in our beds. Where is madam? It’s not safe for her to be running around on her own like this. In my day young women were chaperoned everywhere.”
“In my day, too.” Deciding that he’d survived the shock, she took down another glass from the cupboard. “But things change, Martin, and we have to change with them.”
“Not me,” Martin declared stoutly. “I’m too old to change.”
“If you ask me, you’re too bloody old to breathe,” Violet said crisply. “But that doesn’t stop you trying. Now get on with you and see if you can find Polly.”
“Very well, but it wouldn’t hurt you to say please once in a while.”
“Please.” She watched him shuffle toward the door an inch at a time.
He was almost there when he paused and slowly edged his body around to face her again. “Was it one of those blasted Americans?”
She blinked. “What?”
“The person who was prematurely deprived of his life.”
Irritated by his annoying habit of talking like a dictionary, Violet’s voice rose a notch. “No, it wasn’t. So stop worrying about it.”
“Violet, I shall worry about it if I so wish. I demand to know who is the unfortunate victim of this abominable crime.”
Giving up, Violet shrugged. “It was one of them land girls, that’s who. Someone found her body in the woods. Mind you, the way some of them run around flaunting themselves, it’s no wonder one of them came to a bad end.”
“Oh, my, oh, my.” Martin shook his head so hard his specs slid off. More by luck than judgement, he caught them before they fell to the floor and stuck them back on his nose. “Well, at least it didn’t happen here at the manor. I did wonder if perhaps the master had a hand in it.”
“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
