Martin, as it turned out, was relatively unharmed, despite his spectacular backspring. Apparently, as the major explained, the kickback of the heavy gun had knocked the aged butler off his feet. Fortunately he had managed to imbibe a goodly portion of the expensive brandy Major Monroe had brought with him the night before, which explained his confusion as to the major’s identity. The brandy had also relaxed him enough to survive the fall without any broken bones.
After examining him carefully, Dr. Sheridan pronounced the elderly man none the worse for wear, apart from a badly bruised shoulder and a considerable blow to his pride.
Much relieved, Elizabeth showed the doctor out then went back to the library to question Martin. “Where on earth did you get the gunpowder to load that thing?” she asked him as she helped him on with his coat.
“The master always kept a supply of it in the safe.” Martin struggled to fasten his buttons. “He used to take the gun out sometimes to shoot it in the woods.”
“Good heavens!” Elizabeth stared at him in amazement. “Did Mother know about that?”
“Of course not, madam.” Martin found the dozen or so hairs on his head with his fingers and smoothed them in place. “This was strictly between us men. Women have no business around guns.”
Elizabeth bristled at that but, under the circumstances, decided to let it go. “You could have killed the major,” she said sternly. “I do not want you to ever touch that gun again.”
Martin gave her a haughty look from under his brows. “It wasn’t loaded,” he said, managing to sound dignified in spite of his disheveled appearance.
“What do you mean it wasn’t loaded?” Elizabeth folded her arms. “What on earth was all that noise, then? Not to mention the smoke.”
Martin shook his head. “That was just the gunpowder going off. There wasn’t any ammunition in the barrel. I put the gunpowder in when I heard about the invasion, ready for loading in case we were attacked.” He frowned. “I’d forgotten it was in there. I just wanted to frighten the blighter, that was all. Take him captive until the police got here.” He twisted his head to look around the room. “Where is he, anyway? Blighter hasn’t escaped again, has he?”
“That man you attacked this evening was Major Monroe, one of the Americans billeted in our house. They are our guests. Martin, you really must remember these things. I can’t have you running around attacking the Americans with a blunderbuss.”
Martin flicked the dust off his jacket. “Excuse me, madam, but I was simply trying to protect you. If that had been a German officer, you would be thanking me for saving your life.”
“No doubt,” Elizabeth said dryly, “but right now I’m thanking God you didn’t kill Major Monroe and put us on the wrong side of this war.”
She looked up as the door swung open and Violet hurried in. “How is he?” she asked anxiously.
“He’ll live.” Elizabeth sighed. “He was lucky this time.”
“Silly old fool.” Violet handed Martin a steaming mug of hot milk. “Here, drink this, then it’s off to bed for you. The shock is enough to kill you.”
Martin took the milk and sniffed. “Did you put brandy in it?”
“No, I did not.” Violet wagged her finger at him. “You’ve had far too much as it is. Running around drunk with a blimmin’ shotgun in your hands. Embarrassed us all, you did. You almost killed that nice major.” She shot a look at Elizabeth. “Where’d he go, anyway?”
“Major Monroe took the decorations down to the town hall for me.” Elizabeth glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece. “I should be getting down there. I told him to tell Rita I’d come down just as soon as the doctor left.”
“Well, you’d better get on with it, then,” Violet said, watching Martin gulp down his milk. “I’ll see the old badger gets to bed all right.”
Martin lowered his mug. His upper lip bore a white mustache of milk, which tended to deflate his dignity somewhat when he said pompously, “I am quite capable of getting myself to bed, thank you. If I wanted the services of a nursemaid, I’d hire a professional-someone much more youthful.” His bleary-eyed gaze drifted down Violet’s stick-like figure. “And with more bosom.”
“Well, I never!” Violet looked outraged, though Elizabeth could swear she saw the housekeeper’s lips twitch. “You wouldn’t know what to do with a bosomy young woman if you had one, you mangy old goat. No more brandy for you, mister. It makes your tongue flap too much.”
Martin raised his hand to his nose. “Where are my spectacles?”
“Here.” Violet fished them out of her apron pocket. “They fell off while you were performing acrobatics out in the hall. Though I don’t know why you bother to wear them. If you’d been looking through them properly you’d have recognized the major and wouldn’t have taken a potshot at him. You’re never going to see straight if you keep looking over the top of them.”
Martin took the glasses and rather shakily strung them over his ears. “Has it ever occurred to you, Violet, that being unable to see clearly can sometimes be a blessing?”
Violet raised her chin, obviously taking the comment personally. “You’re glad enough to see me when you’re hungry, though, aren’t you, you ungrateful old sod.”
Elizabeth chose that moment to slip out, leaving the two of them to fight it out on their own. The frequent skirmishes between Martin and her housekeeper were harmless enough, and, although neither would admit it, disguised a genuine if grudging affection for each other.
They had been battling with each other for as long as Elizabeth could remember, from the good days when they’d been in charge of a houseful of servants, through the bad days when they’d watched the domestic staff gradually dwindle down to just the two of them.
Polly and Desmond, the gardener, had been hired less than two years ago, when His Majesty’s service had claimed the resident gardener and the remaining maids had left to work in the military canteens. Martin and Violet were all Elizabeth had left now of her past life at the Manor House, and she loved them dearly. Even if they did drive her crazy now and again with their constant bickering.
Arriving at the town hall a short time later, Elizabeth found yet another form of chaos on her hands. Women appeared to be running hither and thither without any real design or destination. Rita Crumm stood on the stage, her face almost hidden behind the huge microphone, which apparently wasn’t plugged in since not a word she spoke could be heard above the chattering of her crew.
Someone had draped an enormous Union Jack flag at the back of the stage, and Marge Gunther, easily the heaviest of Rita’s followers, balanced precariously on a ladder while she attempted to hang a red, white, and blue garland over the window. Boxes lay all over the floor, while a nearby table was strewn with a tangled array of colorful paper decorations.
Elizabeth heaved a huge sigh, then stashed her handbag under her coat in the vestibule and rolled up her sleeves. It was going to be a long night.
The following morning Elizabeth rose with a strange sense of foreboding that she couldn’t really pin down. The town hall had looked remarkably festive by the time she’d left, though not without a price. Tempers had been shortened and patience sorely tested, not to mention a strained muscle or two. All in all, however, she felt well satisfied with everyone’s efforts.
All that remained now was to confer with Bessie and make sure the refreshments would be taken care of and the records and gramophone delivered on time. Ted Wilkins had dropped by during the decorating to assure her that a large supply of beer would be available for the dance. The major had promised to bring half a dozen bottles of Scotch and whatever else he could find, and so far everything seemed to be working out really well.
Even so, she couldn’t quite dismiss the uneasiness that plagued her throughout breakfast.
She was thankful that Martin was unusually quiet, and even Violet seemed subdued.
“Tired,” she explained when Elizabeth inquired about her well being. “I waited up until I heard you come in.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that.” Elizabeth looked at her in dismay. “I was perfectly all right.”
“You had to ride that motorcycle past those woods in the dark.” Violet rattled the dishes as she stacked them in the sink. “That German could still be loitering around there, waiting to jump out at you.”
“I doubt it very much.” Elizabeth glanced at Martin and was concerned to notice he looked unusually pale. “I’m quite sure he’s left the area by now. The army personnel think so, too. They have called off the search.”
“They can’t do that!” Violet looked put out. “He killed that young girl. He’s got to pay for it.”
“If he killed her.” Remembering the buttons, Elizabeth rose from her chair. “I’m going into town this morning. I was supposed to meet Polly in my office at half-past eight to show her how to do the filing. Please tell her I won’t be back until eleven, so we’ll have to do it then.”
Violet looked disapproving. “I still think you’re making a mistake letting that girl muck about in your office. Her head is too full of other things. She’ll never pay attention long enough to learn anything, you mark my words.”
“Well, we’ll see.” Elizabeth laid a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Are you feeling all right, Martin? You haven’t said a word this morning.”
Martin lifted his head, his eyes widening in surprise. “Good morning, madam! I didn’t see you come in. I do beg your pardon.” He started struggling out of his chair, and Elizabeth gently increased the pressure on his shoulder. “Don’t get up, Martin. I’m just leaving.”
“But you haven’t had any breakfast yet, madam. You can’t go out in this snowstorm with nothing in your stomach. Your mother will be most displeased. Has Geoffrey got the carriage ready yet? I told him the springs needed oiling. I do hope he saw to it.”
Elizabeth exchanged a look with Violet, who rolled her eyes up at the ceiling. “Silly old fool’s rambling again,” she muttered. “Don’t worry, Lizzie. You get on with what you have to do, and I’ll take care of him.”
“Perhaps we should have Dr. Sheridan take another look at him,” Elizabeth said worriedly.
Violet made a hissing sound through her teeth. “If we sent for the doctor every time Martin got confused, the poor man would be here every day. You know how he gets. Give him an hour or two, and he’ll be as good as new.”
“He did take a rather nasty fall yesterday,” Elizabeth said, unconvinced.
“I’ll keep my eye on him,” Violet promised. “Now get along or you won’t be back in time to teach Droopy Drawers how to put papers in alphabetical order. That’ll take you all day.”
Wisely ignoring this piece of sarcasm, Elizabeth sent one last concerned glance at Martin, then left.
Roaring down the High Street a few minutes later, she returned the hand waves from the villagers, mostly women on their daily shopping trips. Heavy black clouds billowed across the steel-gray sky, forewarning a storm out at sea.
Elizabeth glanced up at the leaden sky and wondered if Major Monroe would be flying up there that day. How difficult it must be to find a bomb target when the clouds were so thick and low. The planes would have to fly beneath the clouds to find the target, which put them in dire danger of being hit by flack. Just the thought of it made her feel ill.
She shook off her inexplicable melancholy and coasted to a halt in front of Rosie Finnegan’s clothes shop. Finnegan’s Fashions had been a focal point of the High Street for the last century and a half, ever since Joe Finnegan had emigrated from Ireland, bringing his large family with him.
Their shop handed down from generation to generation, the Finnegan tailors had clothed the people of Sitting Marsh through the various fashion changes, from crinolines and corsets to short skirts and suspenders. Hemlines had gradually narrowed and risen over the years and now seemed to go up and down with every change of season. Through it all the Finnegans had treated their customers with courtesy and good old-fashioned Irish humor.
Rosie was no exception. Though quieter than many of her ancestors, she had a sense of dry humor that never let her down, even in the most trying times.
She greeted Elizabeth with a smile and a hot cup of tea laced with Irish whiskey-a treat that made a visit to Finnegan’s worthwhile.
Sipping the potent brew from a thick china mug, Elizabeth listened to Rosie’s account of the fight at the Tudor Arms. When she had finished, Elizabeth told her about the dance at the town hall.
“I’d appreciate it if you would put some notices up in your window about it,” she said, looking around for somewhere to put down her mug.
Rosie took it out of her hand. “Be happy to, your ladyship. Bit of a short notice though, isn’t it?”
“It is really, I suppose.” Elizabeth leaned forward to finger a pale green silk gown hanging close by. Normally she bought all her clothes in London, staying overnight to give herself plenty of time to explore Harrods as well as the little boutiques in Oxford Street. Since the death of her parents, however, shopping in London had lost much of its charm.
“How much is this?” she murmured. The dress was a tad shorter than she was used to wearing, but she rather liked the flow of the skirt and the somewhat daring neckline was very flattering.
“It’s rather expensive,” Rosie said. “Five pounds, eleven shillings.”
Elizabeth almost smiled. In the days when she’d had money, she’d thought nothing of spending five times that amount on a dress. Now she would have to think twice before splashing out on this one.
There was the dance tomorrow, of course. She hadn’t been dancing since her marriage to Harry Compton. Harry didn’t like dancing. But then, Harry hadn’t cared for any of her favorite pursuits. All Harry had worried about was which horse race to bet on, or which dog would win the Gold Cup.
It would be rather nice to go dancing again. And she hadn’t bought anything in ages. “I’d like to try this on,” she announced.
Rosie’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? How wonderful! This will look absolutely gorgeous on you, m’m. I just know it.” She showed Elizabeth into the minuscule dressing room and left her to try on the dress.
After removing her skirt and jumper, Elizabeth pulled the cool, slinky fabric over her head and let it fall into place. The shimmery green skirt clung to her hips, making her look at least five pounds slimmer. The color brought out the green in her hazel eyes. It was very definitely her dress. Just wait until Major Earl Monroe saw her in this little number.
The second the thought entered her head she was swamped with guilt. For a moment she was seized with an urge to tear off the dress and throw it in the corner where it couldn’t tempt her anymore.
In the next instant she chided herself for being so juvenile. After all, she wasn’t buying the dress for him. She’d had no intention of buying anything when she’d come to the shop. She had just as much right to buy a new dress as anyone else. Even if the money would be better spent on the gurgling water pipes.
Still arguing with herself, she slipped out of the gown and back into her sensible clothes. Then, with the dress draped over her arm, she walked back out into the shop, half afraid that the entire population of Sitting Marsh was waiting outside to sit in judgement of her.
Rosie was still alone, however, waiting for her with an expectant smile on her face. “How did it look, m’m?” she asked with an obvious and quite unsuccessful attempt not to seem too eager.
“Rather nice, actually.” Shutting off the accusing voice in her mind, Elizabeth handed over the gown. “I’ll take it.”
“That’s wonderful. This will look so nice on you, m’m. Shall I have it sent up to the house?”
“No,” Elizabeth said hastily. “I’ll take it with me.”
“Ah, going to wear it to the dance, m’m, are we? Very nice, too.” Beaming, Rosie bore the creation away to be wrapped.
Elizabeth wandered around the shop while she waited, only half listening to Rosie’s chatter from behind the counter.
“I don’t normally carry such an expensive line in my shop,” she said as she carried the package back to Elizabeth. “But I fell in love with this one. Would have liked it for myself, really, but I can’t afford to pay that much for a dress.”
She handed the package to Elizabeth, who took it from her as tenderly as if she were accepting a newborn baby. “Just put it on my account,” she murmured automatically.
“Er-you don’t have an account at Finnegan’s, Lady Elizabeth.” Rosie looked embarrassed. “But I’ll open one for you right away, of course.” She scurried back to the counter and began scribbling in a small ledger.
Feeling guilty again, Elizabeth waited for her to finish. She could hardly tell the woman that she didn’t have enough cash to pay for the dress until the monthly rents were in.
When Rosie finally closed the ledger, Elizabeth handed her the buttons she’d been carrying in her pocket. “I was wondering if you’ve ever seen buttons like these before,” she said casually. “They look as if they might come from a military uniform, though I don’t recognize the emblem on them.”
Rosie took the buttons and examined them. “They’re not military buttons,” she said at last. “The shanks are too fancy. I’d say they are more like blazer buttons, made to look as if they’re military.” She frowned, then added, “Wait a minute, m’m. I think I know where I might have seen buttons like these before.”
She hurried out from behind the counter and crossed to the far wall, where a line of coats hung from a rack. “I’ve only just brought these out since the cooler weather came in a few weeks ago. They’ve been in storage since last winter, so I’m not sure but-” She broke off with a muttered explanation. “I thought so. Here.” She pulled a navy blue reefer jacket off the rack and carried it over to Elizabeth. “See, m’m? They’re identical.”
“So they are,” Elizabeth said slowly. “Have you sold many of these jackets lately?”
Rosie shook her head. “Not cold enough yet, is it, m’m. I’ve only sold two so far. One to Captain Carbunkle-he buys a new one every year-though I don’t know why. I’ve known these things to last ten years or more.”
Elizabeth lifted the sleeve of the thick, heavy wool garment. “And who bought the other one?”
“Sheila Macclesby. She was just in here day before yesterday. She told me Maurice had outgrown his old one, but if you ask me he probably lost it. That Maurice has never been right in the head. Makes me wonder how he ever gets the work done, now that Wally’s not there. ’Course, the land girls help out a lot, I suppose, but I always say farming is men’s work…”
Elizabeth nodded, listening with only half her mind. The other half was remembering the shiny buttons on the reefer jacket hanging in the cowshed and the blackened ones she’d dug out of the bonfire. There didn’t seem any doubt now that the land girls had been right. It looked very much as if Maurice Macclesby had killed Amelia.
Had he had the presence of mind to hide his reefer jacket in the sacks to be burned? It seemed doubtful. More likely, his mother heard him arguing with Amelia that night and possibly discovered the body later. She could have seen the blood on Maurice’s jacket and burned it to protect him.
Elizabeth thanked Rosie and left the shop, her mind still mulling over the possibilities. Sheila could also be the one who hid the body in the woods, hoping to place the blame for Amelia’s death on the German. All possible, but how in the world was she going to prove it?
The evidence had been destroyed; the murder weapon-if the spade was, indeed, the murder weapon-had been throughly cleaned. The only witness to the murder would die herself before she incriminated her son. Elizabeth sighed. Once more it appeared that she was up against a solid brick wall.