“You’re not really going after this crackpot, are you?” Polly demanded. Sprawled on Sadie’s bed, she watched the housemaid draw her light brown hair into a clump on each side of her head and fasten them with rubber bands. The result always reminded Polly of rabbit ears, but she kept that to herself. Sadie appeared to be thick-skinned, but Polly never knew if she was covering up what she really felt inside.
Sadie had been bombed out of her house during an air raid in London, but despite Polly’s encouragement, she never wanted to talk about it. Instead she’d make a funny remark, as if the whole thing were a joke. Polly knew it wasn’t, of course. She guessed it was just Sadie’s way of coping with what must have been a terrible experience. Which made her wonder what else Sadie kept inside her.
“If we don’t find him, no one else will bother,” Sadie declared, giving one of the bunches of hair a flick with her fingers. She turned back from the mirror to join Polly on the bed. “You really don’t think those nitwits down at the police station will find him, do you? They couldn’t find a raisin in a currant bun.”
Polly felt a quiver of fear. “So what are you going to do?”
Sadie grinned. “Not me. Us. You and me. We’re going to find out who’s stealing ladies’ drawers from the washing lines. If we don’t, we’ll never be able to hang our washing out again until he’s caught. Not that we’ve got much underwear left to hang out, anyway.”
The fear turned to dread. “How the blazes are we supposed to do that?”
Sadie pulled her feet up onto the bed and hugged her knees. “I got it all worked out. Your mum sleeps all morning, right?”
“Right. She works until five in the morning then comes home and sleeps until the afternoon.”
“Well, the knickers disappear off the line in the mornings. So what we do, we hang out a bunch of them at your house, then keep watch to see if someone steals them.”
Polly stared at her. “I haven’t got a bunch of them. Most of them went off the line.”
“Blast.” Sadie frowned. “Well, the only thing to do is collect as many pairs as we can from the manor.”
“Violet won’t let us do that. She already said we weren’t to go after the thief.”
Sadie dropped her chin to her knees. “Then we’ll just have to steal them from other people’s lines.”
Polly squealed in horror. “We can’t do that. They’ll put us in prison.”
“We’ll give them all back later.” Sadie lifted her head, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “After all, if the thief gets them first, they wouldn’t get them back. We’d be doing everyone a favor. And if we take all the knickers off the lines and put them on yours, then the thief will have to steal them from your line and we’ll catch him in the act.” She patted her own shoulder. “Brilliant, Sadie. Bloody brilliant.”
“Violet doesn’t like us saying that word,” Polly murmured.
“Piss on Violet.” Having thoroughly shocked Polly, she laughed. “Come on, Pol, don’t you want to see this bugger put in a loony bin where he belongs?”
“I s’pose so.” She really didn’t want anything to do with him, but she couldn’t tell Sadie that. Sadie was so daring and Polly dearly wanted to be like her, even if it did get them in trouble sometimes. “Maybe if we ask people they’ll give us their knickers to put on the line,” she suggested hopefully.
“Nah.” Sadie’s bunches of hair bounced as she shook her head. “They’d be too embarrassed. We’ll just have to borrow them and give them back later. They can’t call it stealing then. Besides, once we catch the real thief, everyone will be so grateful they’ll forgive us anything.”
Though she was still nervous about the whole thing, Polly nodded her head. “All right, then. Let’s do it.” After all, she told herself, she couldn’t afford to lose any more underwear. “What will we do if we see him? What if he’s big and strong?” Remembering the terrible news about the rag and bone man, she added fearfully, “What if he has a gun and shoots us?”
Sadie clicked her tongue. “Silly, we won’t try to grab him or anything. We’ll follow him and see where he goes and then we’ll tell George where he is.”
“Oh.” That helped her feel a little better. “All right, then. When?”
“Tomorrow. That’s when you’ll be collecting the rents, right?”
Polly nodded.
“All right, then. Lady Elizabeth will think you’re in the village collecting rents, and Violet never bothers about where I am in the mornings so long as everything’s kept clean, so no one will miss us. We’ll go down first thing on our bicycles, get as many pairs of drawers as we can find, and bring them back to your house and hang them on the line. Then we’ll wait.”
It sounded so simple, Polly assured herself. What could possibly go wrong with that?
That afternoon Elizabeth decided to pay Iris Morgan another visit. The roses were in full bloom, and she cut an armful to take with her. After laying them carefully in the sidecar, she soared off into the wind, and arrived a few minutes later at the rag and bone man’s house.
Iris took a long time to answer her knock on the front door. So long, in fact, that had it not been for the shrieks Elizabeth could hear coming from behind the house, she would have thought no one was home.
Iris’s expression was not at all welcoming, and Elizabeth offered her the bouquet of roses, hoping their heavenly fragrance would soften the other woman’s hard features.
Iris thanked her politely, but seemed not at all inclined to invite her visitor inside. Instead, she stood stolidly in the doorway, with an air of someone waiting to be rid of a nuisance.
Determined to accomplish her mission, Elizabeth summoned a bright smile. “May I come inside for a moment?” she murmured, stepping purposefully toward the door. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
The woman’s face changed abruptly, and Elizabeth was disturbed by the fear in her eyes. “It’s not about the kiddies, is it?” she asked sharply. “You’ve not come to take them away?”
“Of course not!” Dismayed at causing the woman anxiety, Elizabeth hurried to reassure her. “I simply wanted to talk to you about your late husband.”
Just then a clatter of footsteps warned Elizabeth that someone else was coming up the pathway behind her, apparently in a great hurry. Turning to confront the new-comer, she saw a young boy, wearing frayed trousers and a faded shirt. He stopped short at the sight of her, his gaze shifting to the woman behind her.
“This is my son,” Iris said quietly. To the boy she added, “Come and pay your respects to Lady Elizabeth, Tommy.”
Elizabeth smiled at the boy, who answered her with a sullen look and mumbled something she couldn’t catch.
“Sorry, your ladyship,” Iris said quickly. “He’s upset about his father.”
Tommy started to turn away and she added, “Where are you going? I need you to look after your sister. She’s out there in the back garden by herself.”
The boy hesitated, then shrugged and started down the path that led around the house. He had to pass quite close to Elizabeth, and she felt a pang of dismay when she saw dark purple bruises along his jaw. She waited until he was out of earshot before saying to Iris, “Those bruises look quite painful.”
Iris met her gaze for a minute or so before answering. “Always fighting, he is. Got in a scrap with his mates this morning.”
Elizabeth watched the boy disappear. “I wonder what makes children feel they have to settle things with their fists.”
Iris looked uncomfortable. “Boys will be boys, I suppose.” She opened the door a little wider. “You’d better come inside, your ladyship. I have soup on the stove, and I don’t want it boiling over.”
Elizabeth stepped over the threshold, and caught sight of the cat’s tail as it disappeared under the chair. Iris excused herself and disappeared into the kitchen.
Seizing the moment, Elizabeth moved over to where the photograph of Clyde Morgan sat on the sideboard. Peering at it, she noted the raised left hand holding the dart. Wally had been right about that, at least.
“He wasn’t a handsome man by any means,” Iris said quietly behind her. “But he was my husband and the father of my children and he did his best.”
Spinning around, Elizabeth said quickly, “Oh, I’m quite sure he did.” Iris’s eyes were bleak with misery and she felt an ache of sympathy. “You must miss him dreadfully.” She gestured at the photograph. “Was he left-handed with everything, or just when he was playing darts?”
Iris shot her a strange look. “He was left-handed with everything. Why do you ask?”
Elizabeth hesitated, then sat down on the edge of the settee. “Mrs. Morgan, when your husband was found, he was holding the gun in his right hand. Does that seem strange to you?”
Iris’s face turned quite white. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m not sure.” Elizabeth paused, then added, “I’d like to hear exactly what happened when your husband accidentally hit that young girl in the head with a dart.”
Iris sank on the chair opposite her. “There’s not much to tell. Clyde was playing a darts match at the Tudor Arms, and someone spoke to him just as he was about to throw. His hand jerked, the dart slipped in his fingers and went off in the wrong direction. It hit Sheila Redding in the head. The judge said it were an accident.”
Up until then her voice had been low and flat, as if reciting a well-rehearsed piece of information. But now her voice rose, and sharpened. “It were an accident, your ladyship. I’d swear to that. My Clyde would never have deliberately thrown a dart at anyone. He had a bit of a temper and he was a bit hard on the kiddies sometimes, but he wasn’t vicious. He really wasn’t.”
Elizabeth had to admire the way the woman defended her husband. “I understand Miss Redding is in a home in North Horsham?”
Iris nodded. “I used to go and see her sometimes, but she got so upset I stopped going. Her mum and dad still live here in Sitting Marsh. As a matter of fact, I saw Bob Redding the other day. I suppose he must be home on leave. I feel so sad for them both. To have a child like that and see her so helpless. It must be heartbreaking for them.”
“I’m sure it is.” Elizabeth stood. “Thank you, Mrs. Morgan. I appreciate you talking to me.”
Iris walked with her to the door. “About this gun being in Clyde’s right hand…” She hesitated, then rushed on, “You’re not thinking someone else might have shot him, like Mr. Redding, for instance? I really don’t think he’d do that, m’m. Really I don’t. I don’t know the Reddings very well, but they seem like very nice people. I don’t know why Clyde used his right hand to shoot himself, but he did a lot of things I never understood.”
Elizabeth studied her anxious face. “You may be right, Mrs. Morgan. Then again, who knows what any of us are capable of when fighting our demons?”
Iris’s eyes filled with tears again. “I just wish there was something I could have done to prevent all this.”
“We can’t always be there for the ones we love,” Elizabeth said softly. “No matter how much we want to be. We can’t be responsible for their actions, nor blame ourselves when something goes wrong. We can only pray for them.”
Iris gave her a wobbly smile through her tears. “Oh, I do that, your ladyship. Every day of my life.”
“And so do I.” Turning her back on the tearful woman, Elizabeth walked purposefully down the garden path.
The weekly meeting of the Housewives League was a little late getting started that afternoon. Crowded into Rita Crumm’s dinky front room, the women were avidly discussing the death of the rag and bone man, each of them embellishing on the details they’d heard.
“Shot himself with his own gun,” Marge Gunther declared, her chubby arm jerking up to imitate someone raising a gun to his head. “Blew his bloomin’ brains out all over the floor, he did.” Marge’s voice was powerful, overriding the rest of the chatter.
Florrie Evans, a fluttery little woman, squealed at this statement and slapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide above her fingers.
“Must have been that German gun he was always talking about,” Clara Rigglesby announced. She was Marge’s best friend and secretly thought Marge should be the leader of the Housewives League instead of bossy Rita Crumm.
Rita chose that moment to make her entrance. She always waited until everyone was assembled before striding into the room to restore order. Rita loved to bring everyone to order. She was very proud of the league and the work they did for the war effort, and considered herself something of a hero for leading her stalwart, though often reluctant, members into battle.
If anyone could be credited for winning the war on the home front, Rita was determined to be in the front line. She ruled with an iron fist, and heaven help anyone who opposed her. Her greatest regret was that she wasn’t born a lady of the manor. She was convinced she would have done a far better job than Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton.
Upon perceiving that no one had taken any notice of her carefully timed entrance, Rita remedied the situation by screeching at the top of her lungs, “Ladies! Order, please!”
She was gratified when the chattering women fell silent. She would have been a lot happier had they done that the second she stepped through the door, but she’d been leading this mob long enough not to expect miracles.
She was about to make her first announcement-a reminder that the annual summer fete was drawing near and she was expecting a larger amount of handmade goods this year-when, out of the blue, Marge piped up.
“We was talking about the rag and bone man blowing his brains out.”
Rita tightened her thin lips, which had the effect of making them disappear entirely. She found Marge irritating, especially when she was trying to agitate with her outrageous statements.
“Instead of gossiping about the wretched man like a bunch of starving vultures,” Rita said primly, “you should be feeling sorry for the poor widow. It could happen to any of us, you know. Losing a husband, I mean.”
The reminder that their absent husbands might not come home from the war was enough to subdue the women for a moment. But only for a moment.
Rita had barely begun to launch into her carefully prepared speech when Marge said clearly, “Well, I’m not so sure he did kill himself.”
Even Rita was stunned by this remark. She turned her piercing glare on Marge. “What on earth does that mean?”
Marge, who had arrived last as usual and had to resort to sitting on the floor, stretched out her legs in front of her. “I ran into Priscilla Pierce this morning and-”
“She’s not Prissy Pierce anymore,” Nellie Smith said, with a trace of bitterness. Nellie, the only unmarried member of the league, made no secret of the fact she envied Priscilla, even if she had married a gent old enough to be Nellie’s father.
“Priscilla Carbunkle, then,” Marge said, starting to giggle. “That’s a mouthful and a half, ain’t it?”
“Never mind that,” Rita said, her voice sharp with impatience. “What did you mean about Clyde Morgan not shooting himself?”
Basking in the glory of attention, Marge gave her a smug smile. “Well, Priscilla said as how Wally saw the body lying in the ruins.” She rolled her eyes. “All bloody he were, with half his head blown away.”
Florrie squealed again, louder this time, and a chatter arose among the women, almost drowning out Rita’s harsh command.
“Quiet! Quiet, I say!” She waited for order to be restored, then, as the women in the room fell silent, she addressed Marge again. “If you can’t explain what you mean without all these gory details, then we don’t want to know.”
“Oh, all right.” Marge wiggled her feet in her sensible walking shoes. “Well, Priscilla said that Wally saw the gun in his hand and it was in his right hand. Everyone knows that Clyde Morgan was left-handed.”
“I didn’t know that,” Nellie muttered.
“Well, I did.” Marge glared at her.
“You said everyone knows.”
“I thought everyone did know.”
“Shut up!” Rita roared. “Get on with it, Marge, or else be quiet and let the rest of us get on with the important matters.”
Marge shrugged. “Well, all I’m saying is, if the rag and bone man was left-handed, why would he use his right hand to shoot himself? You’d think it would be more natural to use the hand he always uses, wouldn’t you?”
Nellie stared at her. “Are you saying someone else shot him?”
Marge took her time answering, looking from one stunned face to another. “Well, what do you think?”
“Oh, my,” Florrie whispered. “He was murdered?”
“By a German gun,” Clara said solemnly.
Rita caught her breath. “A German gun? That means we could have another German spy among us.”
“Or maybe a German pilot, like the one what bailed out over the village green that time,” Nellie suggested.
Grasping at the frail straw in her own inimitable way, Rita prepared to turn it into a haystack. “Well, I think this calls for action from the Housewives League. If there’s another German skulking around the village, it’s up to us to ferret him out and hand him over to the authorities.”
Marge groaned. “Not again.”
Rita lifted her chin. “What was that, Marjorie? You have an objection to us doing our duty?”
All heads turned toward Marge, hoping to see a battle ensue.
Disappointing them, Marge merely shrugged. “Nothing. It’s just that I remember the last time we went looking for Germans. Almost got an innocent bird-watcher killed, we did.”
“What about the time before,” Nellie reminded Rita, “when the German pilot hid in the windmill? Almost got your daughter killed that time.”
“Nah,” Clara said happily. “She was sneaking him food and drink, remember?”
All eyes switched to Rita, whose cheeks burned with resentment. Stupid woman, she thought, what did she have to bring that up for? “Never mind all that,” she said hurriedly. “Both times there really was a German in Sitting Marsh, wasn’t there?”
A chorus of reluctant agreement answered her.
“Very well, then. We start looking for this one. After all, if it wasn’t for us, no one would even know there was one lurking about.”
After thinking about it for a moment or two, Rita couldn’t exactly remember how they came to know there was one this time, but she didn’t let that stop her. After all the excitement of the factory blowing up had died down, things had been pretty quiet in Sitting Marsh. She was just dying to get her hands on something else to get excited about, and a possible German spy in their presence, no matter how vague the details, was the perfect answer to her prayers.