“Excuse me, Lady Elizabeth, but I thought I told you that Maurice doesn’t know anything about what happened to Amelia.”
Sheila’s voice shook with barely concealed anger, and Elizabeth held up her hands in apology.
“You did, Sheila, and I’m sorry. But I just thought I’d show Maurice the buttons to see if he recognized them.”
Sheila held out her hand, which trembled visibly. “Please give them to me, and I’ll ask him myself.”
Elizabeth emptied the buttons into the woman’s hand and watched her walk over to her son.
In a completely different tone of voice Sheila said quietly, “Maurice, tell me if you’ve seen these buttons before.”
Maurice went on shoveling feed into the bins.
“Maurice,” Sheila repeated. “You must tell us if you’ve seen these buttons before. I need to know now. No one’s going to hurt you, Maurice. You know I won’t allow that.”
Very slowly, Maurice turned his head and looked at his mother’s face, then at the buttons in her hand.
“Have you seen them, Maurice?”
The boy moved his head from side to side in a negative shake.
“Good boy. Now go on with what you’re doing.” Sheila patted him on the shoulder then turned back to Elizabeth. “You’ll have to excuse him, m’m. It’s the shock, you see. He hasn’t spoken since the night Amelia died.”
She’d barely finished speaking when the most terrible sound echoed through the rafters of the cowshed.
Elizabeth’s stomach turned when she realized the awful noise was coming from Maurice-his head thrown back as the agonized wail poured from his mouth in a torrent of uncontrolled grief.
“Oh, poor baby!” Sheila cried and rushed over to his side, her arms enfolding him against her bosom.
Elizabeth left them there, certain she would never forget that dreadful sound for as long as she lived. She was almost at the door of the shed when she saw a navy blue jacket hanging from a nail on one of the doorposts. It was a reefer jacket, and as far as she could see, every highly polished button was intact.
An hour later she parked her motorcycle in the street alongside the tearoom and prepared herself for the forthcoming ordeal. Once Rita found out that the important mission was nothing more demanding than decorating the town hall for a dance, Elizabeth was quite certain she would raise all kinds of objections.
It was up to her, Elizabeth reminded herself, to make the assignment sound as exciting as possible. In any case, it would do some of these women good to get involved with something frivolous for a change. The war had made things so unutterably dreary, it was up to all of them to make an effort to enjoy themselves for once.
The tearoom was once a part of a rather impressive house, owned by a wealthy merchant at the turn of the century. Shortly after Elizabeth was born, the merchant fell upon bad times, due mostly to the collapse of the British Empire. Deprived of most of his foreign trade, the merchant auctioned his house and moved to London in pursuit of more lucrative endeavors.
Bessie’s father had won the bid and turned the servants’ quarters into a bakery. The wall between the once elegant drawing room and the vast library had been torn down and the space converted into a fashionable tearoom. Bessie, as sole heir, had inherited the business upon her father’s death.
Having been taught as a child and handed down her father’s secret recipes, Bessie proved to be an even better pastry chef than he had been. She had added her own special touches to the quaint tearoom, such as hand-painted flower boxes on all the window sills, shiny horse brasses pinned to black and red leather straps hanging on the walls, and bright copper tea urns decorating the fireplace, where a coal fire burned for much of the year.
Delicate lace curtains hung at the leaded pane windows, and embroidered lace edged the white linen tablecloths, which were lovingly laundered by Bessie and hung on the line to dry in the back garden. The fragrance of fresh flowers and greenery wafted around the arrangements on each table, mingling with the delightful aroma of coffee and fresh-baked bread.
The room had an aura of welcome about it, as if one were paying a private visit to a dear friend’s house, and the cheerful service given by Bessie’s staff emphasized that feeling. Although Elizabeth rarely visited the tearoom, she invariably enjoyed herself here and came away with a conviction that, like the Manor House, as long as Bessie’s tearoom was there, the traditions of Sitting Marsh would remain relatively unscathed by the ravages of war.
The clamor of chattering voices faded one by one when Elizabeth stepped through the door, until a respectful hush fell over the room. Rita rose from her seat at the table nearest the door, where no doubt she had been holding court over the entire room.
“Lady Elizabeth,” she announced in the haughty tone she reserved for such an occasion.
Elizabeth graciously inclined her head at the murmured echoes of greetings. “I do hope I haven’t kept you all waiting.”
“Not at all, your ladyship,” Rita said briskly. “I think everyone is here. I have reserved a chair for you at my table.”
Elizabeth stifled her pang of resentment at Rita’s obvious attempt to upstage her. “Thank you, Rita, that is most kind of you.” She took the seat offered her and sat down, smoothing her skirt beneath her.
Bessie came bustling out, her face wreathed in smiles as usual. “Lady Elizabeth! I thought I heard your voice. The ladies informed me you were hosting this event this afternoon.”
Elizabeth smiled back. “That’s right, Bessie. Please bring everyone afternoon tea, and I’ll settle with you later.” She would have to come up with a brilliant plan for the settlement of such a large bill, she thought as Bessie scurried away to the kitchen. But that could wait until later. Her proposition was the important issue at that moment.
“Ladies! I have an announcement to make,” she called out, rising to her feet again. “I’d like to get the business part of this meeting over with first, then we can all relax and enjoy our tea.”
An array of hats with curious eyes beneath the various brims turned in her direction.
She waited until she had everyone’s rapt attention then cleared her throat. “As you are no doubt aware, relations between the Americans and the people of Sitting Marsh have been somewhat strained. I would like to attempt to remedy that.”
A smattering of comments greeted her words, while Rita began, “If I might-”
Elizabeth silenced them all with a raised hand. “Please hear me out, then everyone can have their say. I called a council meeting this afternoon, and we have decided to hold a dance in honor of our American guests. Everyone will be invited, including the soldiers from Beerstowe.”
This time the chatter was much more vibrant. Elizabeth had to shout in order to be heard. “Ladies! The dance will be held this Saturday, and since this is such short notice, we desperately need your help to decorate the town hall and perhaps help Bessie provide refreshments.”
Again a burst of comments and questions broke forth. Rita’s cheeks glowed as she rose, one hand raised to silence her followers. “Ladies, please.” She turned to Elizabeth. “A dance at the town hall, your ladyship? In two days? Isn’t that asking just a bit too much?”
“Go on, Rita, you’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first.” Clara Rigglesby smirked as the others giggled.
“You’re right,” someone else said. “Blimey, just think of the fun we could have at a dance with them Yanks.”
“Better hope our husbands don’t get to hear of it, then,” muttered Joan Plumstone, a thin-faced woman with a sour disposition.
“Oh, belt up, Joan,” her companion said, giving her a nudge in the arm. “Who’s going to tell them? What the eyes don’t see the heart won’t grieve over.”
“Yeah, don’t forget. Loose lips sink ships.”
Nellie Smith, now wearing a large, floppy-brimmed hat, waved her hand. “Your ladyship, does that mean you’re inviting the soldiers from the camp as well?”
“Anyone who wants to come,” Elizabeth assured her.
“How much is it going to cost to go, m’m?” Clara asked.
“I hadn’t really thought about that.” Elizabeth did some fast calculations in her head. “I suppose we could charge everyone sixpence, the way we do at the village hall.”
“At least a shilling,” Rita argued, apparently realizing she was outnumbered in her skepticism. “After all, the town hall is much bigger and better than the village hall.”
“We’re not going to have Ernie’s Entertainers, are we?” someone asked.
A chorus of deep groans followed that question.
“No, we’re not.” Bessie arrived on the scene carrying a huge tray loaded with teapots. “We’re going to play my Philip’s records. You’d all better learn to jive and jitterbug if you’re going to dance with the Yanks.”
A ripple of excitement ran through the crowd.
“I’d like to see a Yank throw me over his shoulder,” a chubby woman commented.
“Better make sure you’re wearing your knickers, Margie,” someone else commented.
An eager-looking woman seated by the window raised her hand. “What about the land girls, m’m? Will they be coming?”
“They’ll be invited,” Elizabeth assured Florrie Evans.
“Ooh, ’eck,” someone muttered, “we’ll have to fight them off if we want to dance with the Yanks.”
Everyone started talking at once, and Elizabeth clapped her hands. She clapped them twice more and begged for silence, still without success.
Deciding to take matters into her own hands, Rita stepped forward and bellowed, “Bleeding well shut your mouths, will you! Her ladyship’s trying to speak!”
Momentarily deafened, Elizabeth clasped her throat as the room fell silent once more. “I just want to remind everyone,” she said after a pause to collect her thoughts, “that this dance is an effort to restore harmony between the Americans and the people of Sitting Marsh. There will be British soldiers at the dance, just as eager and just as capable of dancing with you as the Americans. I trust you will all remember that and accord everyone the same courtesy. I hope those of you with daughters who might attend will impress upon them the importance of treating the British and the American military alike.”
“You can impress upon them all you like,” Joan muttered, “but that doesn’t mean they’re going to listen.”
“Well, you must make them listen.” Elizabeth gestured at Rita. “Now, Mrs. Crumm will take over and delegate the work of decorating the hall. I realize we have limited supplies, but we should be able to come up with some ideas to make the place look festive.”
The discussion that followed was boisterous, loud, and none too productive. In fact, some of the suggestions were downright ludicrous. Elizabeth was quite thankful when one suggestion to use toilet rolls for decoration was shot down for lack of coupons. She did her best to ignore the uproar and concentrated on enjoying her egg and cress sandwich. The hot buttered scone that followed, lavished with Devon cream and strawberry jam, was even more delicious, especially when washed down with a cup of hot, strong tea.
Rita finally secured a list of names of those willing to meet at the town hall that evening and with an air of bravado informed Elizabeth she had nothing to worry about. “We’ll do the place up, one way or another,” she said, her voice lacking conviction.
“I’m sure I can rely on you and your ladies.” Elizabeth rose from the table. “If there’s anything I can do to help, please don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll have Polly hunt for something that might be useful. My parents used to decorate the Manor House for special occasions. There might be something in the attics you could use.”
“Thank you, your ladyship, but we don’t want to posh it up too much, do we,” Rita said, her expression smug. “After all, this won’t exactly be the society ball of the year. We don’t want the ordinary people to feel out of place.”
“Perhaps not,” Elizabeth said quietly. “On the other hand, we don’t want it to look like Saturday night at the boozer, either.” She moved to the door. “Of course, one has to know the difference. I’ll send Violet down to supervise. I think a certain amount of taste would not be amiss.” Well pleased with the look of outrage on Rita’s face, she closed the door firmly behind her and headed for the bake shop.
Bessie was behind the counter, discussing with the three ladies who worked for her the items to be baked for the dance. She smiled at Elizabeth as she walked in. “There you are, your ladyship. I was just telling my girls we’ll have to bake all night to get everything done. But it will be worth it, won’t it, ladies?”
Elsie, Helen, and Janet nodded in enthusiastic agreement.
“Thank you all,” Elizabeth said warmly. “I’m sorry it’s such short notice, but I think the situation warrants a certain amount of haste. I’m hoping we can all set an example for the military and prove that we can all get along quite well together if we put our minds to it.”
“I hope you’re right, m’m,” Bessie murmured, echoing Elizabeth’s lingering doubts. “But we’ll give it a jolly good try, anyway.”
“Yes, well,” Elizabeth rubbed at a nonexistent spot on the counter, “about the funds for all this. I-”
“Don’t you worry about nothing, m’m,” Bessie assured her. “If they all pay a shilling to get in, that should be enough to cover everything, including this afternoon’s tea meeting. There’s always the war effort fund if we’re a bit short. After all, this is a war effort, isn’t it?”
Elizabeth sighed. “Thank you, Bessie. I just hope we’re doing the right thing.”
“Of course we are.” Bessie turned to her helpers. “Well, get on with it. You’d better get cracking if you want to get some sleep tonight.”
The women scurried into the kitchen, and Bessie leaned her plump, dimpled elbows on the counter. “I know it’s none of my business, your ladyship, but I was wondering if they found out who killed that poor land girl yet.”
“Not as far as I know,” Elizabeth admitted.
“Seems like that German killed her, then?”
“I really don’t know what to think,” Elizabeth said carefully. “So far no one seems to know with whom Amelia spent that last evening. He or she might have been able to answer some important questions.”
“Well, maybe I can help you there.” Bessie looked over her shoulder at the door to the kitchen, which was firmly closed. “I wasn’t sure if I should tell you this, but I just found out a little while ago that Elsie’s brother, Tim, is stationed out at the camp in Beerstowe. He saw a young woman creeping out of the sick bay just before midnight the night the land girl was killed. The only patient in there at the time was a friend of Tim’s. His name is Jeff Thomas, and he’d been going out with the girl who was killed. Tim’s pretty sure it was her he saw creeping out of there that night. He didn’t say anything to the police because he didn’t want to get Jeff in trouble. Especially now his girlfriend is dead. But I thought you might want to know.”
“I see,” Elizabeth said slowly. “Thank you, Bessie, for letting me know.”
She left the shop, mulling over this latest piece of information. Amelia apparently did spend the evening with Jeff Thomas after all and had left there alive, presumably to come home alone. Sheila Macclesby heard the girl arguing with someone after she arrived back at the farm. The German pilot? Or Maurice? It certainly seemed that the suspects had been narrowed down to those two, and although Elizabeth hated to admit it, it was beginning to look more and more as though one of them had taken a spade to Amelia’s head.
She went over the possible scenarios in her head as she rode her motorcycle back to the Manor House. The remaining land girls were still a possibility, of course, but only one of them had any real motive, and although Pauline’s attitude wasn’t the most pleasant she’d come across, Elizabeth couldn’t picture her wielding a spade at a young woman’s head. Then again, none of her suspects seemed capable of such a ghastly attack.
There was always the possibility that the German pilot had been discovered lurking in the yard when Amelia arrived home that night. Perhaps he’d panicked, killed the girl to silence her, then taken her body to the woods to secure his hiding place. Had he then exchanged his blood-stained uniform for clothes stolen from the farmhouse and hidden them in the sacks to be burned?
Or had Maurice killed Amelia in a fit of rage? Perhaps Sheila had found his bloodstained clothes and burned them to protect him.
Whatever had really happened, it seemed unlikely anyone would be able to prove anything. Unless she could trace the origin of the buttons she’d found.
She would pay a visit to Rosie Finnegan the very next day, she decided. Rosie owned the clothes shop in the High Street. Maybe she could help find out to what garment those buttons were attached. If they didn’t come from Maurice’s reefer jacket, then perhaps they came from the German pilot’s uniform. It wasn’t much, but right then it was all she had. And something told her she had to get at the truth soon, before an innocent person was convicted of murder.