door. Although a brand-new lock had been installed at the outbreak of war, in response to the threat of an enemy invasion, it was rarely used. It was just too inconvenient for the tradesmen when they called. The milkman, for instance, put the milk directly in the pantry during the summer, so that it would stay cool.
The door opened on well-oiled hinges, and only the faint glow from the grate of the coal-fired water heater lit the kitchen. As she stepped inside, Elizabeth thought shesaw a movement on the opposite side of the spacious room—a flutter of skirts, a shadow moving swiftly in front of the door that led to the hallway.
Chills shivered down her back as she peered across the room in cold disbelief. Polly's voice drummed in her ears.
I seen them, Lady Elizabeth. Three of them. Children they were. They flitted across the great hall by the east wing
.
Ghosts. No, she didn't believe in ghosts. The back of her neck prickled as the door opened, and the shadow slipped through. She especially didn't believe, she assured herself, in ghosts who had to open a door to pass through it. It would seem that whoever had invaded her kitchen this late at night was solid flesh and blood. The question was, who was it?
CHAPTER
4
"You must have come home really late last night," Violet said the next day, her voice accusing as she carried the pot of steaming porridge from the stove to the kitchen table.
Seated in her usual chair facing the window, Elizabeth watched her housekeeper serve dollops of the gray, sticky mess into her bowl. "I'm getting awfully tired of eating porridge," she murmured.
"I'm getting awfully tired of cooking it." Violet dumped the rest of the mixture into Martin's bowl.
He sat there, staring gloomily at it for several seconds before saying, "This looks like wallpaper paste."
"In that case, either eat it or spread it over the flipping wall." Violet dropped the pot into the sink with a clang that jarred Elizabeth's teeth. "You can't be that hungry, anyway, seeing as how you polished off the rest of the pork pie last night."
Martin lifted his chin and peered at her over the top of his spectacles. "I most certainly did not. I don't care for pork pie. Never have."
"You ate it for dinner the other night."
"I tolerate it when there's nothing else. If I were to pilfer from the pantry, I'd much rather have a wedge of good aged cheddar."
"So that's where the cheese went! I blinking knew it was you."
Martin sniffed. "I haven't had a decent piece of cheese in months. That stuff you buy at the grocer's tastes like rubber. It sticks my teeth together. I have a devil of a job getting them out of my mouth."
"There's a war on," Violet reminded him. "It's all they have." She glanced at Elizabeth. "Must have been you that had the pork pie, then. I thought you might have had something to eat in the village."
"I didn't eat supper at all last night," Elizabeth admitted. "Which is why I'd like something better than porridge for my breakfast."
Violet stared at her in dismay. "You didn't eat supper? You shouldn't go to bed on an empty stomach. It's bad for you."
"I wasn't hungry." Elizabeth toyed with her spoon for a moment. There were things she had to tell them both, but she was reluctant to do so until they had finished eating.
"Where were you going in such a hurry, anyway?" Violet demanded. "I had a dreadful headache last night, so I went to bed early. Never heard you come in, I didn't."
"I was . . . visiting one of my tenants." Elizabeth watched Martin sprinkle sugar on his porridge. There was a time, she thought wistfully, when one wouldn't dream of putting anything but brown sugar on porridge. Of course, there was also a time when porridge was just the appetizer to breakfast, not the entire meal.
As if reading her thoughts, Violet said briskly, "Well, if you didn't have supper last night, you'd better haveyour egg this morning, instead of waiting until Sunday."
"Never mind. I'll fill up on toast."
"So who did
Learning to Kill: Stories