Polly pulled a face and scrambled to her feet. "I tripped, that's all." The precious letter had crumpled in her hand, and she smoothed it out.

"It's those blasted high heels you wear. You'll break your neck in those, my girl. You mark my words."

Having heard the dire warning too many times to count, Polly ignored it and limped into the bedroom. With a flick of her foot she kicked off one sandal, then the other, and sank onto the bed.

She stared at her address written in an untidy scrawl across the envelope. Just above her name was a smudge of dirt, as if it had been splashed with mud. Tense with excitement, she stared at it, wondering where the writer had been when he wrote the letter.

There was one way to find out. Very carefully, hardly daring to breathe, she opened the flap with her thumb and drew out the flimsy pages.

There were three pages altogether, covered in the same scrawl, which at times was hard to read. She skimmed through it at first, skipping the newsy parts to get to something personal. She found it halfway down the last page.

You sound like a really nice girl. Polly. I hope you'll go on writing to me. I'd love to hear from you again. If you can, send me a photograph. I'd like to know what you look like. I'll send you one of me in the next letter. Until then, I'll be thinking about you and looking forward to hearing from you again. Yours sincerely, Pte. Tom Reynolds.

Polly pressed the letter against her heart for a moment. His name was Tom! He was nineteen. Only three years older than her. He lived in Surrey, near London, and he liked dancing and football. Well, she wasn't much of a dancer, and she never saw a football match, but that was something that could be worked on later. Tom. She tried it out loud. "Tom and Polly Reynolds." Yes, it sounded good.

She went back and read the letter again, more slowly this time, taking in every word. He sounded well-educated. That worried her for a moment. She hoped he didn't talk posh like Tess. Winterhalter. That would put a block on it from the start. Oh, well. She'd worry about that later.

She leapt from the bed and opened the top drawer of her dressing table. The cardboard cigar box that held her photographs was tucked underneath a pile of undies. She drew it out and opened it, then spread all the photographs out on the bed.

This one made her look too young. This one made her look ugly. In this one her hair was a mess, and this one was taken on a windy day and half her hair was wrapped around her face. None of them made her look like a film star.

Finally, in desperation, she settled on one that didn't look too bad. It was taken in the summer, by Sam. She was standing by her bicycle and laughing at something Sam had said. The blue and white frock she had on that day was one of her favorites, with its little puffy sleeves and a full skirt.

For a moment tears p.r.i.c.ked at her eyelids when she remembered that day. It was taken before the accident that had messed up Sam's face. He looked so handsome back then. She thought she'd never seen anyone so handsome. Not even Clark Gable or Errol Flynn was as handsome as her Sam.

She stared at the photograph in her hand. She couldn't send this to a stranger. Not if it meant explaining about Sam. She looked at the pile of discarded photographs lying on the bed, then at the one in her hand again. Confused and uncertain, she reached for Tom's letter and read it again.

He'd never know Sam took it. She'd never tell him. Not even if they ended up getting married and living the rest of their lives together.

With a long sigh she gathered up the rest of the photographs and put them back in the box. After tucking it away in the drawer, she fetched her writing pad and pencil and started her letter to Tom. When she was finished, she tucked the photograph inside the letter, sealed the envelope, and propped it up on her dressing table. Tomorrow she'd take it to the post office.

At the door to her bedroom she paused and looked back. The envelope stared back at her, full of promise and exciting unknowns. "Good-bye, Sam," she said softly, and closed the door.

Elizabeth was quite breathless when Earl finally let her go. Breathless and dizzy and feeling ridiculously young and shy. She couldn't look at him, and instead pretended to be anxious about the dogs, both of whom were chasing b.u.t.terflies, blissfully oblivious of the earth-shattering moment that had just taken place.

He still held her hands, and she sought frantically in her mind for something sensible to say. Anything that would break the forbidden spell that bonded them. In desperation, she said the first words that popped into her mind. "I'm supposed to be investigating a murder."

Earl's voice sounded strange when he answered. "Elizabeth, you have the darndest knack for deflating a man's ego."

Appalled at her insensitivity, she stared up at him. "Oh, Earl, I didn't mean . . ."

His chuckle both surprised and relieved her. "It's all right. You're being sensible and practical and all the things I'm supposed to be and can't be right now. And you're right. This isn't a good idea. I guess we just got caught up in the moment."

For some reason, his words disheartened her. "It's not that I didn't enjoy it," she murmured. "Quite the opposite, in fact. It's just thata""

Gently he laid a finger on her lips. "I know. You don't have to explain. There'll be a right time for us. We just have to be patient, that's all."

Her smile was an effort. "Sometimes it's hard."

"Tell me about it." He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her fingers. "Come on, let's corral George and Gracie and give them a ride back to the manor. They love to ride in the Jeep."

Sad that her short, blissful time with him was ending so rapidly, she watched him whistle to the dogs. They came at once and, tails wagging, followed him back to the Jeep. She trailed behind them, committing to memory the picture of man and dogs, happy and carefree in each other's company. It would be all she had while he was away.

Arriving back at the manor, he pulled up in the courtyard and turned to her. The dogs leapt from the Jeep and disappeared around the corner of the ancient building. "I guess this is good-bye for a while," he said, smiling down at her.

It was hard to smile back. "You take care of yourself," she said, striving to keep her tone light.

"You, too." His grin faded. "Stay out of harm's way, Elizabeth. I won't always be around to help out."

"I know." She grasped his hand in both of hers. "Don't worry about me, Earl. I promise I won't do anything foolish. Just concentrate on coming safely back to me."

"You've got a deal." He touched her cheek with his free hand. "So long, sweetheart."

She caught her breath. It was the first time he'd used the endearment. It was something else to cling to in the dark hours ahead. She could not say good-bye. It was too final. She'd never been able to say it to him. Even when she'd thought he was leaving her life forever. "Until we meet again," she said, adding inwardly, my love.

Instead of waiting for him to help her down from the Jeep, she scrambled out on her own. The last she heard of him was the roar of his engine as he drove off to the back of the manor.

Rather than wait the eternity it took Martin to open the front door for her, she made her way through the greenhouses to the kitchen door. Violet was putting dishes away when she entered and looked up in surprise.

"I thought you were taking the dogs for a walk," she said, sliding the last dinner plate onto the pile in the cupboard.

"I was." Elizabeth glanced at the clock. "I have to get down to the village hall now. Bessie is going back there this afternoon to finish cleaning up and I want to talk to her."

Violet peered at her over her shoulder. "About the murder?"

"We don't know if it's a murder yet," Elizabeth pointed out.

"From what I understand, some poor b.u.g.g.e.r was lying dead on the floor with a knife in his chest. I daresay he didn't put it there himself."

"It could have been an accident. He could have fallen with the knife in his hand."

Violet turned all the way around. "And what would he be doing in the cellar with a knife in the first place?"

Elizabeth smiled. "Don't worry, Violet. I'll find out what happened. I usually do."

"That's what worries me. You always seem to end up in trouble yourself when you start going around asking questions like that."

"With so many people worrying about me," Elizabeth said, as she headed for the door, "how can I possibly get into trouble?" She closed the door behind her, before Violet could answer.

A few minutes later she halted her motorcycle in front of the village hall, just as Bessie emerged carrying a huge box. By the way she staggered as she reached the gate, Elizabeth could tell the poor woman's load was too heavy for her.

Elizabeth climbed off her motorcycle with as much haste as decorum allowed and hurried to help Bessie squeeze through the gate.

"Thank you, your ladys.h.i.+p," Bessie said, panting with exertion. "I thought I was going to drop it. Really I did."

"I do hope you're not expecting to carry this all the way back to the Bake Shop." Elizabeth grasped one edge of the box.

"Well, I was going to try." Bessie looked doubtfully at the motorcycle. "I carried it down here."

"But it's uphill all the way back." Elizabeth s.h.i.+fted the weight of the box against her hip. "What's in here, anyway?"

"China. The ladies from the Housewives League brought gla.s.ses and plates, and I brought the cups and saucers from the tea shop."

"Oh, my." Elizabeth wavered, then said cautiously, "I could run them up in the sidecar of my motorcycle, if you like."

Bessie's face shone with relief. "Oh, would you? Thank you, m'm. I'd be ever so grateful, really I would. I still have to pack up the linens and the cutlery."

"Right. Let's get this in . . . here." Elizabeth delivered the last word on a groan as they heaved the box into the tiny sidecar. "It only just fits," she said, as she wiggled the box to make sure it was secure.

"Thank you, m'm. I'll get back inside and finish clearing up. Some of the ladies came to help me and I don't want to leave them working on their own."

Elizabeth climbed aboard the motorcycle, kicked the engine to life, and tucked her pleated skirt securely under her knees. "I'll be back in a few minutes," she said, shouting over the roar of her engine. "I'd like a word with you before you leave."

Bessie nodded, waved her hand, and scurried back to the hall.

Mindful of her precious cargo, Elizabeth rode cautiously up the hill to the High Street. Housewives loaded down with heavy shopping bags waved to her as she pa.s.sed, and she nodded in response, too anxious to raise a hand from the handlebars. It was with a sigh of relief that she finally braked to a halt in front of Bessie's Bake Shop.

Two of Bessie's a.s.sistants rushed out to help her unload the c.u.mbersome box and wrestle it into the shop. The heavenly aroma of freshly baked bread and buns was almost irresistible, but anxious to talk to Bessie before she left the hall, Elizabeth reluctantly returned to her motorcycle.

To her surprise, she saw George and his long-suffering partner Sid hovering around the vehicle when she emerged onto the street. The two constables were deep in conversation, which they broke off the minute Elizabeth arrived within earshot.

They greeted her in unison, and just a little too hastily. She knew at once they had been talking about her. "Am I parked in the wrong place?" she asked, knowing perfectly well that unlike North Horsham, there were no restrictions in the High Street in Sitting Marsh.

"No, no, your ladys.h.i.+p," Sid hastened to a.s.sure her. "It was just that me and Georgea""

"Were discussing the weather," George interrupted loudly.

Sid sent him a puzzled look. "No, we weren't. You were saying as howa""

"Don't you have something urgent to do at the station?" George said, glowering at Sid.

Sid raised his eyebrows. "It's Sunday," he said, his voice rising in protest.

"Ho, ho," George said, sounding a little like a bored Father Christmas. "A policeman's work is never done, isn't that right, your ladys.h.i.+p?"

"Quite," Elizabeth murmured. She knew quite well it was only a matter of time before Sid blurted out what George was trying so hard to keep quiet. "I admire dedicated men such as you two. Always on duty. Makes one feel so terribly secure."

George eyed her warily, while Sid beamed. "That's so nice of you to say, Lady Elizabeth. I was just saying to George, I wasa""

George loudly cleared his throat. "I'm sure her ladys.h.i.+p 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 b.l.o.o.d.y know it," George muttered.

Sid preened. "I do me best, your ladys.h.i.+p."

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 s.h.i.+rt 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 ladys.h.i.+p."

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 ladys.h.i.+p. 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 sc.r.a.ped 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 m.u.f.fled 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 a.s.sistant."