“How long are we supposed to be out here anyway?” Clara whined, wrapping her cardigan closer around her thin body. “My boys will be wanting their dinner before too long.”
“It won’t hurt them to wait a bit.” Marge lifted the field glasses and peered through them. She could see nothing but a flat ocean and a sky studded with puffy clouds. No dark shadows beneath the surface that might suggest an enemy submarine. No pinpoints of light twinkling signals to someone onshore. It was all so bloody boring.
“I don’t know if they will wait,” Clara grumbled. She leaned back on the hard park bench and stretched out her legs in front of her. “They’re growing lads, you know.”
Marge lowered the field glasses. “They’re always eating, your boys. I don’t know how you manage it with everything on ration like it is.”
“I fill ’em up with bread and potatoes. At least we can get plenty of that.” Clara held out her hand. “Want me to look for a bit?”
“Nah. There’s nothing out there. I don’t know why Rita’s so blinking anxious to have us sit out here all morning. If anything’s coming in from the beach they’re not going to do it in daylight, now are they?”
Clara shrugged her shoulders. “Dunno. They might, if they want to get across the sand without stepping on a mine.”
“Well, all I can say is, if I were a German, I’d wait until it was dark and take my chances with the mines.”
“Seeing as how the rag and bone man got shot in the head by a German, I’d say they’re already here.”
Marge’s stomach did a somersault. “Gawd almighty, I never thought of that. All Rita said was that there might be a spy in the village.”
“There could be a whole lot of them. A whole bloody German battalion. How the ’eck would we know if they came in the middle of the night? There’s no one out here to watch for them at night. No one wants to leave their children alone at night to watch for Germans.”
Marge’s heart started banging away like a big bass drum as Clara began wailing in a high-pitched voice, “What’ll we do if they’re here already? We can’t fight them all by ourselves. They’ll take us away and put us in one of them terrible prison camps!”
Already Marge could envision them all starving and freezing to death, staring through the wire fences at the guards pointing guns at them. The picture made her feel faint. Determined not to let Clara know how frightened she was, she said stoutly, “Of course we can’t fight them on our own. That’s what the army’s for, silly. We’ll just ring the army base in Beerstowe from the post office and tell them where they are.”
“But we don’t know where they are!” Clara wailed even louder.
“Well, we’ll just have to find them then.”
“The American base is closer,” Clara said, visibly shivering now. “We could get the Yanks to come. They’ve got guns, too. They’d get here quicker.”
“We’ll ring them both,” Marge assured her. “And the constables. But first we have to find them.”
“Where could they be? Do you think they’re hiding in the woods?”
“They might be.” Marge frowned. The idea of traipsing through the woods looking for Germans who could jump out on them any moment or even shoot them was not her idea of a fun afternoon. A thought struck her and she brightened. “You know what? I think they’d hide in the old windmill. They could keep watch from the windows at the top and they’d have shelter at night if it rained.” The more she thought about it, the more feasible it seemed. “Yes, that’s where they’d be. I think we should look there first.”
Clara didn’t seem at all enthusiastic about the idea. “Why don’t we just tell the constables where we think they are? Then they can call in the army.”
“Don’t be daft.” Marge shook her head in disgust. “We’re going to look right ninnies, aren’t we, if we call in the army and there’s no one there. First we have to go up there and make sure they’re there, then we can go back to the village and raise merry hell.”
“I don’t think-,” Clara began, but Marge, who was impatient to get it over with and get back home where it was safe, wouldn’t let her finish.
“We’re going,” she said firmly. “It won’t take that long to walk out there and take a peek at the windmill.”
“It’s an awfully long way back,” Clara muttered. “ ’ Specially if we have to run all the way.”
Marge crossed her arms across her chest and glared at her friend. “Do you want to win this war or not? How are we going to save the village if we sit on our backsides and do nothing? That’s what we joined the Housewives League for, wasn’t it? To protect the village?”
“Actually I joined it for the knitting parties,” Clara mumbled.
Marge let out her breath in disgust. “Come on. Let’s get one over on Rita. She’ll never forgive us if we manage to get a whole battalion of Germans captured. We’ll probably be in all the newspapers and on the wireless news.”
Clara’s eyes widened. “You really think so? Rita will be so cross.”
“Green with bloody envy, that’s what she’ll be.” Marge grinned. “I can’t wait to see her face when she finds out.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Come on, let’s go and find those Nazis before someone else gets there first. This is one war effort we’re going to do all by ourselves.”
Having sent Polly out to collect the rents, Elizabeth had the office to herself that morning. She found it impossible to concentrate on anything, however. A considerable portion of her mind was engaged in the hope that Earl would call, even though he’d warned her that it could be some time before he could contact her again.
Rather than sit there in what she knew was hopeless futility, she decided to call on Bob Redding. In spite of the favorable opinions she’d heard about the man, she wanted to satisfy herself that he hadn’t taken a gun and ended the life of the man who had more or less killed his daughter.
Her conviction that Clyde Morgan was murdered had grown stronger, fueled more by a hunch than anything else. Still, there was a familiar feeling niggling at her brain that told her she was missing something somewhere, and until she discovered what it was, she was compelled to search every avenue open to her. Bob Redding was at the top of the list.
She gave Alfie a ring, and learned that the Reddings lived in one of the cottages down by the bay. Apparently Mr. Redding had been a fisherman before he was called to duty, and no doubt planned on continuing his profession when he returned from the war for good, God willing.
She was halfway down the stairs when the bell clanged, announcing a visitor. Expecting Martin to materialize, she continued down at a leisurely pace, until it dawned on her that Martin wasn’t there to open the door.
It didn’t appear as if Violet planned on opening it either, probably because she expected Sadie to attend to it. Since there was no sign of the housemaid, Elizabeth had to assume she was somewhere at the other end of the mansion, probably cleaning up after the departure of the American officers.
There was nothing for it but to open the door herself. It took her a few moments to tug back the bolts and latches that held the massive door in place, during which the bell clanged loudly twice, nearly deafening her. As usual, she inwardly cursed the process, vowing as she always did to replace all those bolts and latches with a modern lock and electric bell.
Finally she slid the last bolt back and dragged the door open, breathing a little hard with the exertion. No wonder Martin took forever to open the door, she thought, then stared in shock as she recognized the visitor.
The object of her recent thoughts smiled back at her. “Good morning, madam. I do appreciate your taking the time and trouble to open the door for me. Your pleasant demeanor is a vast improvement over Violet’s sour face and caustic tone, I can assure you.” Martin doffed the trilby he wore and swept it in front of him with a deep bow. “I am forever in your debt.”
Elizabeth’s first thought was that her butler had been imbibing spirits of some sort. Her relief at seeing him made her voice sharp. “Martin, where on earth have you been?”
Martin blinked at her over the top of his glasses. The half dozen hairs on his head, disturbed by the removal of his hat, stood on end, waving in the breeze. There was something different about him, Elizabeth thought, though she couldn’t put her finger on it.
Maybe he was standing a little straighter than usual, his eyes brighter than usual… something. The obvious answer that sprang to mind was the raffle ticket lady, Beatrice whatever-her-name-was. “Martin, have you been visiting your raffle lady friend?”
She watched with fascination as a curtain seemed to descend over her butler’s face. His eyes took on a vacant stare and his voice sounded frail when he answered. “Raffle lady?”
“Yes. Beatrice somebody or other. She visits the manor quite frequently, ostensibly to sell raffle tickets, though I suspect her main objective is to socialize with you.”
A flicker of interest flashed across his face, then was gone. “Socialize?”
“You know what I mean, Martin. And do come in. I really don’t want to have this discussion on the doorstep.”
Martin carefully wiped first one shoe then the other on the mat at his feet before stepping over the threshold. Elizabeth closed the door, then turned to find him shuffling away from her at top speed, which for Martin was little more than the pace of a frightened worm.
“Martin! I’m not finished speaking to you!”
Elizabeth’s voice echoed sharply across the hall and Martin halted, swaying rather precariously on his bowed legs. It took him several seconds to shuffle around to face her, by which time Elizabeth was quite sure he was deliberately emphasizing his fragility.
“I know it’s none of my business,” she said, as he stood blinking at her over his spectacles, “and you are perfectly entitled to your privacy. When you resort to staying out all night, however, I have to question the wisdom of your behavior. Violet and I feel a certain responsibility for your welfare, and it’s not very considerate of you to worry us like this without some sort of explanation.”
He stared at her for a moment or two, then said abruptly, “I was stargazing.”
It was the last thing Elizabeth expected to hear. “I beg your pardon?”
“Stargazing, madam. You know, looking at the stars. I’ve taken up an interest in astronomy.”
Certain he was pulling her leg, Elizabeth said dryly, “Really. Astronomy.”
“Yes, madam. Quite fascinating, actually.”
“I can imagine. Tell me, Martin, are you engaged in this new endeavor alone, or do you have company when you are staring at the stars?”
“Quite alone, madam.”
“I see.” Elizabeth pursed her lips. “And you feel compelled to do this all night long?”
“That is when you have the very best view.”
“No doubt.” Elizabeth walked up to him until she was almost toe to toe. “Martin, I do not believe one word you say. You’re up to something, and I mean to find out what it is.”
“Yes, madam. May I be excused now? I am rather fatigued.”
He did look awfully tired, Elizabeth thought with another rush of concern. “Go and lie down,” she ordered, “but first let Violet know you’re back. I don’t want her getting in a state worrying about you all day.”
“Very well, madam. Good day to you.”
A thought occurred to her and she called out after him. “Have you had breakfast?”
“Yes, madam, thank you. I had a plate of sausage, bacon, eggs, mushrooms, fried potatoes, fried tomatoes, and fried bread. Very tasty.” He was moving away from her as he spoke, and his last words were barely audible, but she caught them. “A vast improvement over Violet’s stodgy porridge, I can assure you.”
She stared after him. Where in the world did he get a breakfast like that? If he was stargazing, as he maintained-and she had serious doubts about that-it had to be from a most unusual viewpoint indeed.
This wasn’t the time to pursue it, however, and she had other matters to attend to for the moment. Later, she promised herself, she would corner her butler and demand to know where he had spent the last two nights, and why he was going to such great pains to hide where he had been.
The wind had picked up considerably by the time she rode her motorcycle along the narrow road that separated the harbor from the tiny shops that had once catered to the summer visitors. Most of the shops were closed and shuttered now, since very few people ventured far from home these days.
She found the cottage nestled on a steep slope, its leaded-pane windows almost hidden beneath its thatched roof. Parking her motorcycle, she was careful to turn the wheels into the grass verge.
An attractive woman answered her knock, and immediately gasped in surprise. “Lady Elizabeth! Whatever are you doing here?” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “That wasn’t very polite, was it? I’m just so surprised to see you, that’s all. I’ve seen your picture in the paper and seen you about town, but I never thought I’d actually get a visit from you.”
“It’s quite all right.” Elizabeth smiled at her. “In the old days one would drop off a calling card announcing an impending visit. In my opinion the old customs were a good deal more civilized than the modern manners of today, and should be resurrected for the most part. I apologize for calling on you like this, but I would like a word with your husband, if I may?”
“Oh, Mr. Redding’s not here, your ladyship,”-she opened the door wider-“but he should be home soon if you’d care to come in and wait. He’s just gone down to the harbor to help his friend unload his catch for the day.”
Elizabeth stepped inside the immaculate front room, and looked around with pleasure. Bright yellow cushions with white daisy appliqués decorated the brown sofa and armchairs, giving a splash of color to the room. Yellow and white checkered curtains hung at the windows, and a vase of daisies sat in the middle of the highly polished dining table.
“How refreshing,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “I love daisies; they always seem to be smiling somehow.”
Mrs. Redding’s laughter echoed across the room. “I know what you mean. If you’ll care to sit down, I’ll put the kettle on.”
“Oh, please don’t bother.” Elizabeth sat down on a comfortable armchair and removed her scarf. “I’d like to talk to you if you don’t mind, Mrs. Redding.”
“Not at all, and please, call me Marion. Everybody does.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth paused, then added carefully, “I was so very sorry to hear about your daughter’s tragedy. What a terrible accident that was.”
Marion Redding’s face clouded. “Indeed it was. Sheila is our only child, and I didn’t think Bob was ever going to get over what happened to her. Not that one ever really gets over something like that, but we’ve managed to come to terms with it, and that’s the best we can hope for.”
“I suppose there’s no hope that your daughter will recover?”
“None at all.” Marion Redding sank onto the sofa, her hands clasped together. “Sheila will spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair, however long that may be.
She doesn’t know anything that’s going on around her. It’s like she’s asleep all the time, except her eyes are open. Sometimes she cries, but no one knows why, and it’s so sad to see her like that.”
“It must be very hard for you and your husband,” Elizabeth said quietly. “I suppose you’ve heard that Clyde Morgan, the man responsible, has passed away?”
Marion nodded. “We heard he’d shot himself. Bob said he was probably eaten up with guilt for what he did and couldn’t live with it anymore.”
“And what do you think?”
The other woman sighed. “I really don’t know, your ladyship. It’s been more than two years, after all, and Clyde Morgan didn’t strike me as the kind of man who would wallow in guilt over something that was an accident, no matter how badly it turned out.”
A harsh voice came from the doorway, making them both jump. “What difference does it make? The miserable bugger’s dead, and that’s true justice.”
Elizabeth stared at the man who’d just entered the room. He wore a dark sweater and a cloth cap, and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. He needed a shave and shadows underlined his dark eyes. His scowl drew his thick brows together and in one hand he held an axe, making him all the more intimidating.
“For heaven’s sake, Bob!” Marion uttered a nervous laugh and got up from the sofa. “That’s no way to greet the lady of the manor. This is Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton. She wants to talk to you.”
Bob Redding appeared unaffected by this announcement, though he did remove his cap. Very deliberately, he closed the door with an ominous thud. “Something I can do for you, your ladyship?”
Feeling somewhat unsettled by this bear of a man, Elizabeth said quietly, “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Redding. I do trust you are recovering from your injuries?”
He came farther into the room, his face a mask of indifference. “As well as can be expected, I suppose.”
“He’s expecting to go back to his unit in a week or two,” Marion said hurriedly. “Aren’t you, Bob?”
Her husband didn’t answer, but kept his gaze on Elizabeth’s face, his eyes narrowed and wary.
“Well, I won’t keep you long.” Elizabeth met his gaze steadily. “I just dropped by to let you know about the sudden death of Clyde Morgan. Your wife tells me you’ve already heard about it.”
Not a flicker of expression changed in the man’s gray eyes. “Yes, we did. Can’t say I’m sorry.” He ignored his wife’s gasp of dismay. “As far as I’m concerned, the skunk got what he deserved.”
“I can understand your bitterness, Mr. Redding.” Feeling at a distinct disadvantage, Elizabeth got to her feet. “I imagine most people would feel the same way in your shoes.”
“That’s not to say I killed him.”
Marion uttered another distressed cry. “I’m sure her ladyship didn’t mean-”
“Oh, I think she did,” Bob Redding said, his voice harsh and threatening. “Isn’t that why you’re here, your ladyship? To accuse me of murdering Clyde Morgan?”