“Come on, ladies. Get a bloody move on!” Rita stood in the middle of the coast road and waved her arms at the straggly bunch of women trudging far behind her. “It’ll be dark soon and we have to be positioned on the cliffs by then.”
“I know where I’d like to bloomin’ position her,” Marge muttered.
Tramping alongside her, Nellie giggled. “Leave her alone. She’s in her glory when she can boss us around like this.”
Marge grunted. “It’s all a waste of time, if you ask me. We’ve been waiting five years for the Germans to invade. They’re not going to come now, are they. We’re winning the war. Mr. Churchill said so, and he should know.”
“We haven’t won it yet,” Nellie said, puffing a little with the exertion of marching uphill. “We’ve got to invade the Nazis now and turn the tables on them.”
“Well, they’ve been talking about that for weeks, too. Makes you wonder if this war is ever going to end.”
“Shut up talking down there!” Rita yelled, still prancing about in the middle of the road. “You want the enemy to hear you? This is supposed to be a secret mission!”
Nellie giggled again. “What makes her think they wouldn’t hear her? Not much secret about that yell, is there.”
“I’d like to see what she’d do if the Germans did invade,” Marge mumbled. “One glimpse of a U-boat and she’d wet her knickers. She’d be off faster than a scalded cat, leaving us all to face the buggers by ourselves.”
“Well, I don’t think we have to worry about it. Like you said, the Nazis are not coming anywhere near this beach. Even if they did, they wouldn’t get past the mines without everyone knowing about it.”
“Try telling her that.” Marge nodded at Rita, who was now marching toward them.
A faint buzz in the distance heralded a vehicle coming along the coast road at a fast pace. Rita seemed to pay no attention to it, her focus squarely on the unruly members of the Housewives League. If there was one thing Rita couldn’t stand, it was being ignored.
Marge braced herself for one of Rita’s explosive tirades, which more often than not were directed at her. She couldn’t help it if she liked to talk. It wasn’t her fault if someone talked back with her. Yet she always got the blame for what Rita liked to call a “disruption.”
The roar of the engine grew louder, and Marge could tell it was a Jeep. Rita must have heard it, too. Although her back was toward the oncoming vehicle, she’d moved over to the right side of the road.
Knowing the Yanks’ tendency to drive on the wrong side of the road, the group of women made sure to stand well clear of the grass verge, crowding up to the railings that lined the cliffs. They all watched with gleeful expectation as Rita stood in the road, her hands dug into her hips, and cast a baleful eye on her wayward members.
“How many times do I have to tell you,” she began, “that when we’re on a mission…”
The Jeep roared into view, plunged past Rita with room to spare and continued on its way, rocketing from side to side as it careened around the bend.
“Lucky they weren’t driving on the wrong side,” Marge commented. “You’d be flat as a pancake by now.”
She nudged Nellie in the side as Rita glared at her, but Nellie was staring after the Jeep, her face creased in a frown. “They weren’t Yanks,” she said. “What were civvies doing in an American Jeep?”
“How’d you know they weren’t Yanks?” Marge demanded. “They could’ve just been dressed up in ordinary clothes.”
“Nah.” Nellie looked smug. “I can tell a Yank a mile off.”
“I don’t know how you could tell that. I couldn’t even see their faces. They had them covered with scarves.”
Florrie let out a shriek that startled them all. “Oh, my God! It was the three musketeers!”
A chorus of horrified exclamations greeted this alarming statement.
Rita bellowed above the din. “For heaven’s sake, shut up that bloody noise!”
The chatter died away, with one last echo of a whimper from Florrie.
“What are we going to do?” Nellie demanded. “They stole a flipping Jeep.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Rita said, assuming command once more. “We only surmise that. We can’t go around accusing innocent people without being sure.”
“Well, it weren’t no Yanks in there, that’s for sure,” Nellie insisted.
“Perhaps not, but in any case, they are too far away for us to do anything about it now. I’ll have a word with P.C. Dalrymple tomorrow. But for now, can we please maintain silence while we assume our position on the cliffs.”
Marge sighed. For a moment there it looked as if they might get out of the invasion watch for once. She might have known Rita wouldn’t give up on it. It made her feel important. Rita liked to feel important. If it were up to her, she’d have the whole blinking village turn out for her missions, as she called them. Luckily for them, most of the villagers had more sense than to listen to her.
Marge joined the others as they resumed their march to the high point of the cliffs. She often wondered why she bothered to go along with it. All the plodding around trailing after Rita, watching for Germans and looking for spies. Not once had they ever caught anyone. Not once. Not even when they had a German pilot cornered in the windmill. There was always someone else there to seize the glory.
She could almost feel sorry for Rita, if she didn’t know the woman enjoyed every minute of it. Pity her when the war was over. Rita Crumm would have to find another way to throw her weight around. Wonder what she’d do. Probably get rid of Lady Elizabeth and take over the Manor House if she had her way.
Marge pulled a face, imagining what life would be like in Sitting Marsh with Rita Crumm as lady of the manor. She’d blinking move, she would. Go and live in North Horsham.
“You got a blister or something?”
Marge jumped as Nellie hissed in her ear. “No, why?”
“You had a sour look on your face.” Nellie grinned. “You need to piddle?”
Marge scowled at her. “No, I don’t. I don’t know-” She broke off, her breath catching in her throat. They had just rounded the bend, and Rita stood transfixed in front of them, looking at something straight ahead. The way she stood there, all still and quiet, gave Marge the chills.
“What’s she looking at?” Nellie whispered loudly.
The rest of the group had halted, all apparently struck by Rita’s odd posture. They huddled together, afraid to speak, and Marge was quite certain that the dreaded invasion had begun after all.
Then Rita turned and came back to them at a run. “You were right, Florrie,” she said, sounding breathless. “Three men, all with scarves tied over their faces.”
“Oh, my,” Florrie moaned.
The other women started muttering, until Rita silenced them with a sharp raise of her hand. “This is our chance,” she said, her voice low and hoarse with excitement. “We’re going to capture the three musketeers.”
“How the bloody hell do you think we’re going to do that?” Nellie demanded.
“Shhh!” Rita put a finger over her lips. “We want to take them by surprise.”
“And they’re going to come along quietly? I don’t think so.” Nellie crossed her arms. “The best thing we can do is get George and Sid up here. They’ve got the authority.”
“I’ve got authority, too,” Rita said stiffly. “As General of the Housewives League, I have the authority to apprehend anyone endangering the lives of the villagers.”
Nellie smirked. “Says who?”
“Says everyone. That’s who. It’s understood.”
“So how are they endangering us?”
“They could shove the Jeep over the cliffs and it could hit a mine and blow all our heads off.”
Shocked cries arose among the group. “Ere, I’m orf,” someone said.
“Me, too.” There was a general movement of the crowd to turn tail.
“No one is going anywhere,” Rita muttered fiercely. “They’ve been trying to cath these criminals for months. All that damage they’ve done to the American vehicles and property-we can’t let them go now.”
“Even if we do catch them, how are we going to get them back to the village?” Florrie ventured.
Rita quelled her with a glare. “All right, what we have to do is keep them talking while someone goes down to the village for George and Sid.”
Nellie sniggered. “How do you think you’re going to keep them talking? Chat about the weather?”
“I’m not going to,” Rita said calmly. “You are.”
Nellie’s grin vanished. “Me? Not on your life.”
“You have to do it.” Rita put on her stubborn look. “You’re the youngest, and not bad looking. You’re the only one they’ll take any notice of; and after all, you’ve had plenty of experience chatting up the boys.”
Nellie looked offended. “Here, what does that mean?”
“I only meant that you’re the most experienced one to do this. Think what it will mean, to be the one who catches the three musketeers. Some of the most wanted criminals in the country.”
Nellie stared at her, and Marge could tell that she was weighing the price of glory against the need for self-preservation. Finally, she said, “All right, I’ll do it. But you’d better all be close behind me. And someone had better get down to the village really fast because I don’t know how long I can keep them talking.”
Rita beamed. “Good for you, Nellie. You won’t regret this, I promise you.”
It wasn’t often Nellie got praise from Rita. If ever. She turned red and muttered, “I bloody hope not.”
Rita turned to Florrie. “You go down to the village, Florrie, and fetch George and Sid. If they’re not together, then send them up here one at a time. And make it fast. We don’t want to lose them now we’ve got them in our grasp.”
Florrie had been turning even more pale throughout this speech. Finally she spluttered, “Oh, I couldn’t. Really I couldn’t.”
“Of course you can,” Rita said, losing all vestige of patience. “All you’ve got to do is run down the hill and tell George the three musketeers are up here and to come right away. It’s downhill all the way. How hard is that?”
“Why can’t Marge go?” Florrie whined.
Rita uttered a grunt of contempt. “Look at her. She’s twice your size. It would take her forever to get down there. You can do it in half the time.”
Marge was about to protest, then thought better of it. After all, she didn’t want to be the one to go down to the village. She wanted to stay and watch the excitement.
At last, Florrie was persuaded, and she set off at a panicky run in the direction of the village.
“Now,” Rita said, giving Nellie a pat on the shoulder. “Off you go. Tell them you’re on your way home and ask them for a lift or something. Or pretend you’ve lost your dog and want them to help you look for it.”
“I haven’t got a dog,” Nellie said, beginning to look scared.
“I know that.” Rita actually grinned, though her mouth looked as if it were fighting it. “But they don’t know that, do they. Just get on with it. We have to stop them before they leave and disappear again.”
Nellie looked really worried now, and Marge felt sorry for her. “Maybe I should go with her,” she said, wondering what on earth had made her say that.
“No, it’s better if she goes alone. That way they won’t feel threatened.”
“Maybe they won’t, but I flipping will.” Nellie looked around the group. “You’ll all come running if I yell for help, won’t you?”
Everyone nodded, though no one looked as if they really meant it.
With a sick feeling in her stomach, Marge watched Nellie walk slowly up the road. They were sending her into danger, all alone, straight into the arms of the most wanted criminals in the country. What on earth were they thinking?
Faced with the prospect of eating leftover stew, Elizabeth decided instead to take a ride down to the Tudor Arms and buy two of Alfie’s delicious Cornish pasties. Just the thought of them made her feel hungry, and she wasted no time in getting her motorcycle out from the stables.
It was still early enough that the pub wouldn’t be too crowded, and with any luck she could slip in and out without attracting too much attention. It would do her good to get out of the house, she told herself as she swept down the hill. Too much time spent alone allowed her to dwell on Earl and what horrors he might be facing.
News of the bombing raids on Germany were prevalent on the wireless these days. One could hardly turn it on without hearing about the planes lost and the courageous men who didn’t return. She seldom listened to the news now, and only turned on the wireless when one of her favorite programs was on.
One could hardly dig one’s head into the sand, however. What with the wireless reports, the newspaper, and talk on everyone’s lips, it was difficult to escape the rumors about an imminent invasion of Europe by the Allies. Just the mere mention of it was enough to turn her stomach and fill her heart with fear.
Turning into the parking lot, she was thankful to see no Jeeps parked there. A couple of bicycles leaned against the fence, but other than that it seemed the evening’s festivities were yet to begin. Of course, with Priscilla on her honeymoon, the Sunday talent concert would not be held. Then again, most of the locals walked to the pub and could already be inside enjoying their evening pint.
Although aware that the rules of etiquette had been relaxed considerably since the outbreak of the war, Elizabeth still felt uncomfortable entering the pub unescorted. Still, the thought of those Cornish pasties called to her, and she couldn’t ignore the hunger pangs. She headed for the door, her mouth watering.
The familiar smell of beer, tobacco, and the musty odor of the heavy oak beams was as potent as ever. The level of chatter lowered considerably as she made her way to the bar. Several tables were occupied in the saloon bar, and recognizing the locals, she acknowledged them all with a gracious wave of her hand.
The gentlemen rose, until she waved them back into their seats. “I shan’t be long,” she told them. “Please sit down and enjoy your evening.”
Alfie, the ruddy-faced jovial barman, greeted her with a smile. “Come for your usual drop of sherry, your ladyship? Sit right down and I’ll pour you one.”
“Actually I came for Cornish pasties.” Elizabeth glanced hungrily at the display case on the counter. “I won’t be stopping for a drink tonight.”
“Got a nice bottle of cream sherry just come in.” Alfie reached under the counter, brought out a bottle, and waved it at her. “Shame to waste it on those what don’t appreciate a good sherry when they see one.”
Elizabeth hesitated. The house was awfully lonely without Violet there. Thinking about her missing housekeeper got her worried again. She climbed up on a stool and said demurely, “Just one, then, Alfie. Thank you.”
“My pleasure, m’m.” Alfie poured the brown liquid into a glass and pushed it toward her.
She could smell the sweet, tangy aroma of it even before she lifted the glass to her lips. The first sip burned her throat, as it always did, and she put down the drink. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Violet in the last hour or two?”
Alfie seemed surprised. “Violet? In here? I don’t think she’s ever set foot in this pub. Not as long as I’ve been here, anyhow.”
“Well, she doesn’t usually go off somewhere without telling me, either.” Elizabeth glanced around the room in the faint hope of seeing her housekeeper’s bony features.
“Maybe she took a walk. It’s a nice night.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Martin said she went off in a motorcar. I wasn’t aware that Violet knew anyone who had a motorcar.”
Alfie looked sympathetic. “I know you must be worried about her. Finding that Sutcliffe chap dead at the wedding yesterday puts everyone on edge. Nasty business, that.”
“Yes, it was.”
“Can’t say I’m all that surprised, though. Smarmy blighter he was, though one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
“Oh, that’s right. He had a room here, didn’t he.” Forgetting Violet for the moment, Elizabeth seized the opportunity to pursue her investigation. “I take it you didn’t care for the gentleman.”
Alfie snorted. “That weren’t no gentleman. Trouble-maker, that’s what he was. Almost came to a punch-up the other night. I had to step in and calm things down.”
“Oh, dear.” Elizabeth wrinkled her brow. “What happened?”
Alfie nodded at the customer who had come up to the bar unnoticed by Elizabeth. “Ask Dave here. He knows better than I do.”
Elizabeth turned to the newcomer, who touched his forehead with his fingers.
“Evening, your ladyship.”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Murphy, isn’t it? You own a fishing boat, I believe.”
The young man nodded. “Yes, m’m. The Murphys have been fishing the North Sea ever since we came over from Ireland.”
“Yes, I knew your father.” Elizabeth studied the pleasant face. “So you were here when the argument began?”
“Yes, m’m.” Dave Murphy hesitated, and glanced at Alfie.
“It’s all right, Dave.” Alfie grabbed a tankard from above his head and stuck it under one of the pumps. “You can say anything to her ladyship. She’s heard it all before.”
Dave coughed, his cheeks growing warm. “Well, this chap Sutcliffe, he was poking fun at one of the customers.”
“Dickie, the photographer,” Alfie explained.
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “Really. I wasn’t aware that Mr. Sutcliffe and Mr. Muggins knew each other before the day of the wedding.”
“I don’t think they did know each other,” Dave said, looking even more uncomfortable. “Not before that night, anyhow. They both were staying here, for the wedding.”
“That’s right,” Alfie put in. “Dickie was down from North Horsham and was taking photographs the night before the wedding. He didn’t want to drag all his stuff back home and then have to bring it all down again the next day. So he asked if he could leave it here. I suggested he stay the night, so he did.”
“I see.” Elizabeth turned back to Dave. “Brian Sutcliffe was making fun of him? In what way?”
Dave loudly cleared his throat. “Well, Dickie is a bit, you know…” He looked at Alfie for help.
“He’s a poof,” Alfie said.
Puzzled, Elizabeth turned to him. “I beg your pardon?”
Dave coughed again, louder than necessary. “I don’t think-”
Alfie ignored him. “You know. A fruit.”
Elizabeth stared at him blankly.
Alfie flapped his fingers at her. “A queer, your ladyship.”
“Alfie, I really don’t think-” Dave began, but much to Elizabeth’s amazement, Alfie interrupted him, his voice rising to a remarkable high falsetto.
“You are just too, too precious, dahling,” he squeaked, and flapped his fingers in her face again.
Slowly, realization dawned. “Oh,” she said faintly. “Now I understand.” She’d heard of such people, of course. One could hardly live in London as long as she had and not be aware of all its diversities. “And Brian found out, I suppose.”
“You can hardly miss it,” Alfie said.
“Anyway,” Dave said hurriedly, “Sutcliffe was making some off-color remarks, saying things like Dickie would look lovely in a wedding dress, and… well, things like that. Dickie finally lost his temper and threw his beer all over him. Then Sutcliffe got nasty and said he was going to write to the North Horsham newspaper and tell everyone he was a… well, you know.”
“Ruin his career, that would,” Alfie muttered. “I mean, most people just think he’s a bit off, you know. But you put that kind of thing in the newspaper for everyone to read, well, no one would hire him to take photographs at weddings anymore. Or anything else for that matter. Wouldn’t look right, would it.”
“Indeed it wouldn’t. What happened, then?”
Dave took up the story again. “Well, that was the strange part. Dickie stood up to him. Sounded a lot different, he did. Warned Sutcliffe to leave him alone or he’d find himself in some bad trouble. Then he asked Alfie for his key and left.”
“That’s right,” Alfie said. “He went up to his room.”
Having heard enough for the present, Elizabeth changed the subject. She finished her sherry, bought her Cornish pasties, and left, eager now to talk to the fussy photographer again. Especially since it seemed he had a very good reason to thoroughly dislike the late Brian Sutcliffe.