George, I was-”
George loudly cleared his throat. “I’m sure her ladyship has better things to do this afternoon than stand around listening to your idle chatter, Sid.”
“Not at all,” Elizabeth said brightly. “I’m always interested in what Sid has to say. He can be so terribly informative at times.”
“Don’t I bloody know it,” George muttered.
Sid preened. “I do me best, your ladyship.”
Elizabeth smiled at him. “You certainly seemed concerned about something just now. I do hope I don’t have a flat tire.”
Apparently oblivious of George’s fierce glare, Sid’s hearty laugh rang out. “Oh, no, m’m. Nothing like that. George was just saying he hoped the inspector got here and arrested the murderer before you got in the way again.”
This time George’s frantic coughing failed to cover up Sid’s words. Elizabeth gave him a frosty look. “Why, George, I thought you always appreciated my efforts to solve your cases for you.”
George’s face turned beet red, and he ran a finger around the collar of his shirt as if it were choking him. “Yes, I do. Most of the time, that is. But this time we know who the murderer is, and I wouldn’t like to see you go to all that trouble of asking everyone questions like you always do when it ain’t… isn’t necessary.” He coughed again, then added as an afterthought, “Your ladyship.”
Elizabeth fixed him with a stern eye. “You know who murdered Brian Sutcliffe?”
“Yes, m’m.”
“Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to inform me, just so I won’t get in your way.”
George looked as if he were about to cry. “I can’t do that, your ladyship. You know I can’t.”
“Course you can,” Sid said cheerfully. “You know who it is, Lady Elizabeth. It’s the chap what’s staying at the manor, isn’t it. Mr. Rodney Winterhalter is the one what killed Mr. Sutcliffe. Isn’t that right, George?”
CHAPTER 6
Polly stood at the front door of the Manor House and tugged on the bell pull for the third time. She was fast losing her patience. She was dying to show her letter to Sadie, and that old fool, Martin, was taking his blinking time opening the door for her.
If the kitchen door wasn’t locked she could get in that way, which is the way she usually went in. But on Sundays Violet took the afternoon off and locked the kitchen door, so here she was, hopping up and down waiting for Martin to wake up and let her in.
She was about to hang on the bell rope again when she heard the first bolt sliding back. At last. What the bloomin’ heck had he been doing? Another bolt scraped open, then the huge iron key grated in the lock. Two more bolts to go and the latch to lift. All she could hope was that he didn’t fall asleep again before he got them all open.
At long last the door inched open a crack. Her impatience exhausted, Polly gave the door a shove. To her dismay, she heard a muffled exclamation, then a thud. The old boy must have fallen down again. He was always falling down these days. It was a wonder he didn’t break his bloomin’ neck.
She pushed the door, but it refused to budge any further. Getting anxious now, she put her mouth up to the crack. “Martin? Are you all right?”
To her relief, his crusty voice answered her. “No, I am most definitely not all right. The blessed door just attacked me.”
She sighed. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“Not at all. I bounce off doors and land flat on my back for the pure fun of it.”
“Can you get up?”
“If I could get up,” Martin said peevishly, “do you think I’d still be lying here like a beached whale? Who are you, anyway?”
“It’s Polly.” She waited, and when no response seemed forthcoming, added helpfully, “Polly Barnett.”
“I am not acquainted with Polly Barnett.”
“Yes, you are,” Polly said, rolling her eyes skyward. “I’m Lady Elizabeth’s assistant.”
“Lady Elizabeth is not at home, so she doesn’t need your assistance.”
“I didn’t come here to work.” Polly was fast losing her patience again. “I came to see Sadie.”
“Miss Buttons is finishing her chores. At least she’s supposed to be finishing her chores. Heaven knows what the dratted girl gets up to when no one is watching her. I never did trust that hussy.”
Polly pushed the door again, but Martin’s body still prevented it from opening.
Martin’s voice rose a notch. “If you’d stop hammering me with the door I might consider making an attempt to get back on to my feet.”
“Sorry.” She waited. And waited. “Are you getting up?” she asked, when there seemed no sign of movement from the other side of the door.
“In a moment. I’m studying the ceiling. I think it needs a good scrubbing.”
“Something needs a good scrubbing,” Polly muttered under her breath. Deciding that drastic measures needed to be taken, she grasped the bell rope again and gave it a hearty tug. A loud clang rang out and echoed from within the hallway.
“Who’s there?” Martin called out.
Polly rolled her eyes again and heaved a heavy sigh. “It’s still Polly Barnett.”
“Well, what are you doing dithering about out there? Come in, come in.”
“I would if I could bloody get in,” Polly muttered. She jumped as the door suddenly swung open.
Martin stood in the doorway, his half dozen silver hairs standing on end. He peered at her over the gold rims of his glasses. “Did you say something?”
“I said thank you very much, Martin.” Polly darted past him before he could delay her any longer. She heard him muttering something as she raced up the stairs to the great hall, but paid no attention. All she could think about now was showing her letter to Sadie.
She found the housemaid in the great hall. Sadie was about halfway down, dusting the suit of armor that stood between the tall windows. As Polly drew near, her feet soundless on the thick carpet, she heard Sadie talking softly to herself.
“There you go, me old matey. Now you’re all spruced up, how about giving me a ride on that white horse of yours? I could do with some excitement in me life.”
Polly grinned as she came up behind the unsuspecting girl. “You won’t get much excitement out of that lump of metal,” she said loudly.
Sadie screeched and spun around, but instead of looking at Polly, she seemed to be staring wide-eyed at something behind Polly’s back.
Remembering the ghosts that had been sighted in the great hall, Polly’s skin prickled with fear. She twisted around to look behind her, the echo of her shriek reaching the far end of the hall. All she could see were the portraits of generations of ancestors staring down from the towering walls.
“Cor blimey, Polly,” Sadie said, wiping her brow with the duster. “Whatcha go and do that for? You nearly scared me out of me knickers.”
Annoyed with herself, Polly muttered, “Well, you scared me, too. I thought you’d seen a ghost. What were you looking at, anyhow?”
“I dunno.” Sadie shook out the duster, sending a cloud of dust back over the suit of armor. “I jumped when you spoke and swung around to look. Then you screamed and made me jump again. I s’pose it’s hearing about that bloke what got murdered at the wedding. Given me the jitters, it has.”
Polly stared at her. “What bloke?”
“Brian. The bloke I told you about. The one what followed Tess down from Cambridge. They found him in the cellar. Someone stuck a knife in his chest.”
“Oh, heck!” Polly shook her head in disbelief. “How awful. Nice looking bloke he was, too. Who would do that to
