As Elizabeth rounded the curve on her motorcycle, she saw the group of women circling the dilapidated base of the old windmill. Rita stalked around, her strident voice too far distant to make out the words. The tone, however, was unmistakable. Rita was in her sergeant major mode.
Bracing herself for an inevitable confrontation, Elizabeth deliberately revved up the engine and roared onto the scene. Her spectacular skid halted her a few yards from where Joan Plumstone and Marge Gunther crouched behind a bush. They both leapt into the air when Elizabeth’s wheels kicked up the dust behind them.
“Sorry,” Elizabeth murmured as she cut the engine. “I didn’t realize I was going so fast.”
“Lady Elizabeth!”
The harsh voice made it sound more like a reprimand than a greeting. Elizabeth grimaced as she watched Rita march toward her. “Good morning, Rita!” she called out. “Police Constable Dalrymple informed me that you have discovered the German pilot.”
The mention of the constable’s name appeared to take the wind out of Rita’s sails somewhat. She spluttered for a moment then said testily, “There was no need for George to bother you, your ladyship. I’m quite sure my ladies can handle the situation.”
Which was precisely why George alerted me, Elizabeth thought wryly. “Oh, I’m sure you can,” she said, vigorously nodding her head. “I’m simply here to observe, that’s all. In my role as lady of the manor, of course. I feel it’s my duty to be on the scene when something of such significance is taking place.”
Rather childish of her to remind Rita of her position, Elizabeth reflected, but necessary at times. Someone had to keep that woman under control.
“Well, as you can see, we have the entire place surrounded.” Rita waved an arm to emphasize her statement. “He cannot escape now. In a moment I will give the word, and we will charge in there and get him. Isn’t that right, ladies?”
A faint and definitely half-hearted chorus of “Right” answered her. Obviously the group of wary ladies did not share their leader’s enthusiasm when it came down to actually tackling the poor boy.
“Might I strongly suggest that you wait until the constables arrive?” Elizabeth said firmly. “Even the most innocuous of animals can become vicious when cornered. I should hate to see any of you ladies hurt.”
Several of the women began muttering in concern and were immediately silenced when Rita held up her hand. “We had planned on taking him by surprise, your ladyship. Since the noise from your motorcycle has now rendered that impossible, we shall have to resort to a charge. There are more than enough of us to overwhelm any attempt of the German to offer resistence.”
Irritated now, Elizabeth climbed off her motorcycle and approached Rita. “I cannot allow you to do any such thing, Rita. Apart from the fact that the young man could be armed with a gun and could shoot you all on sight, you have no right to attack a human being unprovoked.”
“Unprovoked?” Rita’s voice rose shrilly in the cool air. “The man is a murderer! If you don’t think that’s enough reason to attack him”-she dropped her tone to acrimonious drawl-“your ladyship, then I have to respectfully question your sense of justice.”
“You have no proof that this young pilot killed Amelia Brunswick.” Elizabeth rashly went out on a limb. “In fact, evidence suggests that someone else was responsible for her murder.”
Rita seemed taken aback. “Evidence? What evidence?”
“That’s something you’ll have to take up with P.C. Dalrymple. He should arrive at any minute, and until then I must insist that you not attempt to approach the windmill.”
Several of the women muttered their agreement, apparently relieved the decision had been taken out of their hands.
Rita, however, became incensed with what she obviously considered mutiny. “All right, you miserable traitors!” she yelled. “You can all snivel on the sidelines if you like. But I’m not going to be called a coward. It’s our duty to capture this bloody German, and we will disgrace ourselves if we turn away from our duty. So who’s with me?”
She glared at poor Nellie, who, faced with choosing between the calm authority of the lady of the manor and the fevered rage of her fearless leader, sided with the person who could do her the most damage. “I’m with you,” she quavered, raising a shaking hand.
Rita glared at a few other women, all of whom dragged themselves reluctantly over to stand behind her. A dozen pair of eyes fastened on Elizabeth’s face, pleading with her to stop Rita somehow.
Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, but just then the door to the windmill opened a crack. It was enough to break the slim hold she had over Rita’s intentions. With an inhuman howl, Rita pulled a wicked-looking knife from under her coat and brandished it in the air. “Come on, ladies! Tally ho!”
The crack closed immediately, but that didn’t deter Rita. With her cohorts now hot on her heels, all feebly echoing that ridiculous war cry, she surged full tilt toward the windmill.
Elizabeth threw up her hands then determinedly gave chase.
Rita reached the door first. She shoved it open with her shoulder, raised the hand holding the knife above her head, and prepared to plunge inside.
Elizabeth briefly closed her eyes and prayed. When she opened them again, it seemed as if her prayer had been inexplicably answered. Rita appeared frozen in the doorway, while the group of women crowded silently behind her.
For a moment or two, Elizabeth was unable to move either. Whatever sight had met Rita’s eyes, it was enough to stop the avenging woman dead in her tracks. Elizabeth couldn’t imagine what could be dreadful enough to achieve that miracle, and right then she wasn’t prepared to conjecture what Rita might have seen inside the windmill.
The shriek of rage shook her out of her stupor. The agonized sound had come from Rita, who had now disappeared inside the dark depths of the rotting building.
Galvanized into action, Elizabeth pounded forward as fast as her sensible shoes would allow. She skidded to a stop when she reached the silent group and thrust her way past them to the door. Peering inside, she half expected to see Rita dead on the floor. The sight that met her eyes, however, shocked her to the core.
Rita stood immobile, apparently staring into the dark shadows in front of her. Elizabeth could just make out the two figures inside. One was the German pilot, his back pressed up to the wall. Standing protectively in front of him, a half-eaten loaf of bread in her hand, defiance in every line of her young body, was Lilly Crumm.
“Apparently Lilly had been feeding him for the past two or three days,” Elizabeth told Violet when she returned to the Manor House later. “Her mother had no idea, of course. She was totally flabbergasted. She was all set to tear the poor boy apart with her bare hands. Luckily, George and Sid arrived to take him into custody before anyone could do him any damage.”
Violet looked up from the stove, where a pot of soup sat bubbling. “Lord knows what Rita Crumm will get up to next, but mind you, she’s got her hands full with that Lilly.”
“Like mother, like daughter, I’m afraid.” Elizabeth dropped her handbag on the table and sank onto a chair. “They are both very strong-willed women.”
“Well, I know someone else like that.” Violet coughed and hurried on before Elizabeth could protest. “Anyway, I’m so glad they caught that German. Now we don’t have to worry about a murderer running around the woods, and everything can get back to normal. Polly can go back to riding her bicycle home instead of bothering that nice American officer.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Elizabeth murmured.
“Well, I’ll make sure she doesn’t bother him,” Violet said, giving the soup a vicious stir with her wooden spoon.
“No, I mean that we don’t have to worry about a murderer running loose.”
Violet gave her a sharp look. “How’s that? George and Sid are going to keep him a prisoner, aren’t they? They’re not going to turn him loose? After all, he is a German bomber pilot. The same kind who dropped the bomb on London that killed your parents, remember?”
Elizabeth gave her a wry look. “I’m not likely to forget that. And no, they won’t turn him loose. In fact, the last I heard, George was telling everyone that the prisoner would be hung for murder. What I meant was, I don’t think he killed Amelia Brunswick.”
“Then who did?”
Elizabeth met Violet’s curious gaze. “I’m pretty sure I know, but I can’t prove it. I really don’t want to say anything until I’m certain I’m right. At this point I’m afraid it’s all conjecture.”
Obviously disappointed, Violet shrugged. “Well, if you feel like that.”
“The thing is,” Elizabeth said slowly, “I keep getting the feeling that I know how to prove it. I just can’t quite pull it out into the open.”
Violet’s eyes narrowed with interest. “Something you saw, perhaps?”
Elizabeth thought about it. “No. It’s more like something someone said, I think. Darn, I wish I could remember.”
“Stop trying. It will come to you in a flash, you’ll see. Happens to me all the time. I wake up in the night sometimes shouting the answer. Good job I never married. I’d scare a husband to death.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I suppose you’re right. Thinking so hard about it makes my head ache anyway.” She sniffed the air. “The soup smells good.”
“Oxtail. Lucky to get it. Jack Mitchem didn’t have much in the shop today-just some scrawny-looking chickens and some fatty pork. Maybe you could ask your Major Monroe if he can bring us some more steak.”
“He’s not my major,” Elizabeth muttered, relieved that Violet couldn’t see the way her heart jumped at the mention of his name.
“You never did tell me why he’s wearing a bandage on his head.”
“His plane went down in a field, and they had to get a lift back to base.”
“Oh, my!” Violet clutched her throat. “Poor man. What about the rest of them? Are they all right?”
“Just bruises and cuts, Earl said.” His name had slipped out without her thinking.
She saw Violet’s eyes widen with understanding. “Earl now, is it,” she said softly.
Elizabeth sighed. “I decided it was time to join the modern world, that’s all. Everyone seems to be on a first-name basis nowadays. Must be the war, I suppose.”
“The war changes a lot of things.” Violet tilted her head to one side. “I just hope you know what you’re doing, Lizzie.”
“I’m not doing anything, so you can stop looking at me like that.” Elizabeth sought to change the subject. “I left Polly to finish entering the notes from the council meeting into the ledger. Do you know if she finished them?”
Violet looked frustrated at being robbed of what promised to be an interesting conversation. “I don’t know if she finished them or not. The last I saw of her she was looking for the vacuum cleaner. Said she’d lost it. How can you lose a vacuum cleaner, I ask you?”
“It isn’t lost,” Elizabeth murmured, only half paying attention. “I saw it standing at the end of the great hall last night, so I put it back under the stairs where it belongs.”
Violet sniffed. “Well, isn’t that just like that young lady. The last place Polly would ever think of looking for something is the very place where it should be.”
Elizabeth stared at her. “That’s it,” she said at last. “Violet, how long will it be until the soup is ready? I have an important visit to make, and I need to do it as soon as possible.”
An hour later Elizabeth arrived at the Macclesby farm.
Maisie hailed her as she crossed the yard to the farmhouse.
Elizabeth returned the greeting. “Is Mrs. Macclesby in the farmhouse?” she asked as Maisie turned away.
“No, your ladyship.” Maisie hooked a thumb in the direction of the cowsheds. “She’s in there, shredding up mangolds. Kitty was supposed to do it, but she took sick. Something she ate, I think.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I hope she soon feels better.” Elizabeth hurried over to the sheds, where she could hear the sound of the hopper. Inside one of them she found Sheila, busily turning the handle of the large wooden box, while the beets bounced and rattled around before the blades shredded them to pulp.
Sheila looked surprised to see her and immediately let go of the handle, brushing her hands down her stained apron. “Lady Elizabeth! You always seem to catch me when I’m looking my worst. Can I offer you a cup of tea or cocoa?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t want to interrupt your work.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Sheila waved a hand at the hopper. “It’s almost done, and one of the girls can finish it off later. I don’t want you standing around a drafty old shed. It’s getting really cold out there. Come inside, and I’ll make a nice cup of tea.”
Elizabeth followed the farmer’s wife into the house and accepted a seat on the armchair Sheila offered her. “Please, don’t bother with the tea just now,” she assured her. “There’s something rather important I want to talk to you about.”
Sheila’s face immediately turned wary, and she sat down on the edge of the settee, twisting her hands in her apron. “What about, your ladyship? No trouble, I hope?”
Elizabeth sighed. “Sheila, the first day I was here, after Amelia’s body was discovered in the woods, Maisie told you she’d left a spade outside the night before, and when she’d gone to retrieve it the next morning, the spade had vanished.”
Sheila violently shook her head. “I don’t remember-”
“You told her it was back in the shed where it belonged,” Elizabeth continued. “Later on that day Maisie thanked you for cleaning the spade for her. You denied doing so.”
“Did I? I can’t recall-”
“The medical examiner believes that the killer might have used a spade to kill Amelia. A spade that was probably left out overnight…”-she deliberately paused-“and later cleaned.”
Sheila’s hand closed over her throat. “So that’s how that German killed that girl. He used one of my spades and cleaned it off afterwards-the murdering sod. Beg your pardon, m’m.”
“That’s quite all right.” Elizabeth looked down at her gloved hands. “There’s just one thing I don’t understand. You said you heard Amelia arguing beneath your window, but you decided not to go down to investigate.”
“That’s right, your ladyship. How glad I am now that I didn’t. I could have walked right into a murder and been struck down myself. Lucky escape, that’s what I had.” Sheila started fanning herself with the skirt of her apron.
“If I remember, you told me you hadn’t been out of the house the next morning when I arrived. Yet you knew that the spade that had been left out overnight had been put back in its proper place in the shed. How could you have known the spade was back in the shed, unless you saw it there after Amelia was killed?”
Sheila appeared to have no answer to that question. She sat as if turned to stone, staring at Elizabeth without a flicker of expression in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Sheila,” Elizabeth said gently. “I think you heard Amelia arguing with your son right under your window that night. By the time you got down there, it was too late. He’d killed her. You took the body into the woods and hid it, hoping to put the blame for her death on the German pilot. Then you cleaned off the spade, put it back in the shed, and later burned Maurice’s bloodstained reefer jacket.”
Sheila’s voice sounded strangled when she spoke. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said hoarsely. “My son isn’t capable of killing anyone. You know that. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He liked Amelia-he would never have hurt her.”
“He probably didn’t mean to,” Elizabeth said, her heart aching for the poor woman. “Maybe Amelia was teasing him, and he just wanted her to stop. People whose minds have not fully developed are not capable of reasoning like normal people. Maurice was just trying to defend himself.”
“He would never have hurt her. Never.”
Elizabeth leaned forward and patted the trembling hands. “Sheila, you know I have to tell the constables. There’s no guarantee that something like this won’t happen again. I came to you first, because I wanted to give you the chance to prepare Maurice for what will happen to him. I’m quite sure, given the circumstances, that he won’t be put in prison. The jury will most likely find him insane, and he’ll be sent to an asylum where he can be watched and protected for his own sake. You’ll be able to visit him-”
“No!” The words were wrung from Sheila’s lips. She leapt to her feet and walked over to the window, where she stared out at the shadows creeping across the farmyard. “Maurice didn’t kill Amelia,” she said bleakly.
“Sheila-” Elizabeth rose just as the farmer’s wife turned to face her.
“My son did not kill that woman.” Her voice was stronger now, with a note of defiance. “I did.”