Manor House 01 - A Bicycle Built for Murder by Kate Kingsbury Page B
Authors: Kate Kingsbury
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muttered, but Elizabeth could tell she was pleased with the comment.
Actually, if her mother were here, she'd probably be horrified at the familiarity that had developed between her daughter and the housekeeper.
One does not waste time in idle chatter with the servants. Too much familiarity breeds contempt
. She could just hear her mother's voice expressing her disapproval. They did things differently in the old days, she would say. But this wasn't the old days. The war had changed everything.
Even the king and queen had visited the bombed-outruins of East London and talked to the people on the streets. Unheard of before the war. Nowadays people lived for each day, grateful to survive. They were all in this together. There was something rather comforting about that.
As soon as she'd finished her breakfast, Elizabeth hurried to the study and closed the door. She was anxious now to try the telephone numbers she'd found on the application form.
Seated at her rolltop desk, she traced as best she could the smudged numbers on the back. The two she had to guess she left blank. Starting with a one, she substituted the blanks and dialed a number. The high-pitched rapid buzzing told her it was unobtainable. The next number she dialed gave her the same result. On the third try, a woman answered the telephone.
"I'd like to speak with Beryl Pierce, please," Elizabeth said quickly. It was the first thing that came to mind. She should have given this more thought.
"There's no one of that name here," the woman said, sounding apologetic. "Is she a novice?"
Elizabeth blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Perhaps you have the wrong number," the woman suggested. "This is the convent in East Common."
"I think I do have the wrong number," Elizabeth said faintly. "I do beg your pardon." She replaced the receiver and frowned at the smudges. Now that she really looked at the numbers, one of the blanks looked a bit like a five. She tried dialing again. Unobtainable. Thank heavens the North Horsham exchange had switched to automatic dialing a couple of years ago. She would have driven an operator crazy. Twice more she dialed, and then the call went through.
The woman on the end of the line answered with avoice of efficiency. "Ministry of War, Land Army Recruitment Center. Can I help you?"
It wasn't often Elizabeth felt foolish. Right now she felt like the biggest nitwit of the century. The telephone number on the back of the Land Army application was for the recruitment office. Of course. Any idiot could have realized that.
She dropped the receiver in its cradle without answering the voice. There was no point in asking about Beryl, since she hadn't filled out the application. Idly she turned the form over, already trying to decide when she should talk to Beryl's friend, Amy.
There was the name of the recruitment center in bold black letters, with the telephone number printed underneath. So why was it scribbled on the back? She turned the sheet of paper over and examined the smudged number on the back of the form again. The numbers were different. Which meant that whoever answered the telephone just now wasn't in the general office of the recruitment center. She had to be in a private office.
With rising hope, Elizabeth dialed the number again. The same woman answered, sounding a trifle impatient. Deciding to take no chances, Elizabeth said cautiously, "I was given this number by an associate. To whom am I speaking?"
"This is Carol Simmons, recruitment officer. Can I help you?"
"Er . . . yes, this is a friend of Beryl Pierce. She gave me your number to call."
After a slight pause, the voice asked cautiously, "Were you interested in joining the Land Army?"
"No . . . er . . . that is—"
"You have to come to the recruitment center and fill out an application. We're in the High Street, on the corner of Williams. Hours are ten till four." The line clicked and went dead.
Elizabeth replaced the receiver. Obviously Carol Simmons didn't deal
Actually, if her mother were here, she'd probably be horrified at the familiarity that had developed between her daughter and the housekeeper.
One does not waste time in idle chatter with the servants. Too much familiarity breeds contempt
. She could just hear her mother's voice expressing her disapproval. They did things differently in the old days, she would say. But this wasn't the old days. The war had changed everything.
Even the king and queen had visited the bombed-outruins of East London and talked to the people on the streets. Unheard of before the war. Nowadays people lived for each day, grateful to survive. They were all in this together. There was something rather comforting about that.
As soon as she'd finished her breakfast, Elizabeth hurried to the study and closed the door. She was anxious now to try the telephone numbers she'd found on the application form.
Seated at her rolltop desk, she traced as best she could the smudged numbers on the back. The two she had to guess she left blank. Starting with a one, she substituted the blanks and dialed a number. The high-pitched rapid buzzing told her it was unobtainable. The next number she dialed gave her the same result. On the third try, a woman answered the telephone.
"I'd like to speak with Beryl Pierce, please," Elizabeth said quickly. It was the first thing that came to mind. She should have given this more thought.
"There's no one of that name here," the woman said, sounding apologetic. "Is she a novice?"
Elizabeth blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Perhaps you have the wrong number," the woman suggested. "This is the convent in East Common."
"I think I do have the wrong number," Elizabeth said faintly. "I do beg your pardon." She replaced the receiver and frowned at the smudges. Now that she really looked at the numbers, one of the blanks looked a bit like a five. She tried dialing again. Unobtainable. Thank heavens the North Horsham exchange had switched to automatic dialing a couple of years ago. She would have driven an operator crazy. Twice more she dialed, and then the call went through.
The woman on the end of the line answered with avoice of efficiency. "Ministry of War, Land Army Recruitment Center. Can I help you?"
It wasn't often Elizabeth felt foolish. Right now she felt like the biggest nitwit of the century. The telephone number on the back of the Land Army application was for the recruitment office. Of course. Any idiot could have realized that.
She dropped the receiver in its cradle without answering the voice. There was no point in asking about Beryl, since she hadn't filled out the application. Idly she turned the form over, already trying to decide when she should talk to Beryl's friend, Amy.
There was the name of the recruitment center in bold black letters, with the telephone number printed underneath. So why was it scribbled on the back? She turned the sheet of paper over and examined the smudged number on the back of the form again. The numbers were different. Which meant that whoever answered the telephone just now wasn't in the general office of the recruitment center. She had to be in a private office.
With rising hope, Elizabeth dialed the number again. The same woman answered, sounding a trifle impatient. Deciding to take no chances, Elizabeth said cautiously, "I was given this number by an associate. To whom am I speaking?"
"This is Carol Simmons, recruitment officer. Can I help you?"
"Er . . . yes, this is a friend of Beryl Pierce. She gave me your number to call."
After a slight pause, the voice asked cautiously, "Were you interested in joining the Land Army?"
"No . . . er . . . that is—"
"You have to come to the recruitment center and fill out an application. We're in the High Street, on the corner of Williams. Hours are ten till four." The line clicked and went dead.
Elizabeth replaced the receiver. Obviously Carol Simmons didn't deal
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