Polly shot her a look over her shoulder. “Don’t be daft, Sadie. That’s only in the films. America has enormous wide roads and lots of cars, and big buildings and lovely houses with swimming pools. I’ve seen pictures of them.”
“What, in Photoplay? What makes you think they’re real? It’s a film magazine, isn’t it?”
“What about the cities like New York, that you see in the films, then? They’re just like London. What about the pictures of the film stars’ homes? They’ve got to live somewhere, haven’t they? Are you going to sit there and tell me the beaches in Los Angeles aren’t real? I didn’t see no cowboys and Indians running around shooting arrers there.”
Sadie grinned at her friend. “Okay, okay, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I was just having you on, that’s all. ’Course I know there’s no cowboys and Indians in Los Angeles or New York, but I bet you anything they have ’em in Wyoming, where Lady Elizabeth’s major lives.”
Polly stared at her. “How d’you know where he lives?”
“I heard them talking.” Sadie stretched her spine against the back of the hard chair. “He was telling her he goes riding on horses there. Miles and miles of open land, he told her. You can ride all day there and not see another soul.”
Polly turned her back on the window and gazed dreamily at Sadie. “Ooh, how romantic. Can’t you just imagine her ladyship riding on the back of his horse, hanging on to his waist?” She sighed, slapped a hand over her heart, and rolled her eyes at the ceiling.
Sadie burst out laughing. “She’s more likely to be riding on her motorcycle chasing after him.”
Polly’s romantic visions vanished. “Well, I think she’s madly in love with him, and I think he loves her, as well, so there.”
“I hope not.” Sadie’s face sobered. “If you’re right, I can see trouble ahead for them. What’s going to happen when he goes back to America?”
“She’ll go with him, of course.”
“Oh? Then what’s going to happen to all of us, might I ask? What about Violet and Martin, and you and me? What about the Manor House? Who’s going to take care of that?”
Polly stuck out her bottom lip. She didn’t want to think about what might happen. Thinking of her ladyship and Major Monroe together made her feel warm inside, and she didn’t want anything to spoil that. Why did things always have to be so blinking complicated?
With her mood dampened, she turned back to the window. The sun shone directly in her face, momentarily blinding her. She blinked… and blinked again. No, she wasn’t seeing things. She let out a yell that echoed all the way up the stairs. “Sadie! The knickers! They’re gorn!”
Sadie got up so fast she knocked over the chair. She swore, then picked it up, muttering, “You’d better be joking.” Thrusting Polly aside, she stared out of the window.
There was the sound of a door opening and Polly’s mother’s voice floated down the stairs. “Polly? Is that you? Why aren’t you at work? What are you doing down there?”
Polly grabbed Sadie’s arm. “Come on,” she whispered hoarsely. “He can’t have got far. Let’s go after him.”
“You were supposed to be watching for him,” Sadie began, then yelped as Polly dragged her across the kitchen. Footsteps started down the stairs, and Edna, Polly’s mother, called out, “Polly? What are you doing?”
Polly didn’t wait to answer her. She shoved Sadie through the back door and out into the garden. Side by side they raced for the gate and threw it open. They were just in time to see a bicycle disappear around the bend.
“Come on!” Sadie yelled. “After the bugger!”
Polly threw herself on her bicycle and pedaled like mad down the road after Sadie, who was already speeding away from her. They rounded the bend and there in the distance was a very short man huddled over the handlebars of his bicycle as he raced along the coast road.
Sadie waved a frantic arm at Polly and yelled, “Get a move on, Polly! We can’t lose him now!”
Polly put her head down. She didn’t know where they were going, or what they would do if they caught up with the thief. They had reached the top of the hill and were gathering breakneck speed, and all she cared about now was staying on her bicycle.
CHAPTER 11
Marge thought she was going to die by the time she and Clara stumbled down the High Street, both of them limping and sobbing for breath. Clara hadn’t said one word to her since they left the windmill, and Marge was thankful for that. She wouldn’t have been able to answer her anyway.
At long last the police station came into view, which was just as well, since she and Clara were attracting a good deal of attention as they lurched down the street. Marge shot a glance at her friend. Clara’s hair was all over her face, which was as red as a beetroot and covered in sweat. Daft thing still hadn’t taken her cardigan off. No wonder she was dripping.
The steps were almost too much for Marge, and by the time she actually got to the door she had to lean on it to push it open. Clara stood at the bottom of the steps, holding her sides and making horrible noises like a cow in heat.
Marge left her there and staggered into the office, where she thankfully fell onto the chair. She’d sat on that chair a few times in the past, but it had never felt as comfortable as it did right then.
George, she noticed, sat behind his desk, one hand holding a half-eaten Banbury cake halfway to his mouth, which was stuck wide open. She waved a hand at him to go on eating, while she fought to get enough air back in her lungs to speak.
George looked from her to his hand, hesitated, then shrugged and thrust the cake in his mouth.
“Germans!” Marge managed to gasp when she finally found her voice.
George dropped the remaining piece of cake onto his desk. Making a tsking noise with his tongue, he picked up the cake, dusted it off on his jacket, and shoved it in his mouth.
Momentarily distracted, Marge gazed at the smear of sugared crumbs on George’s uniform and wondered what the inspector would say if he saw that.
“I beg your pardon?” George said, his voice muffled by the food in his mouth.
Marge pulled in some more air, then coughed. There was always a faint odor of horse manure in the police station. She’d forgotten not to breathe through her nose. She opened her mouth, pulled in more air, then shouted, “Germans!”
George raised his eyebrows. “Where?”
Marge waved a hand at the door. “At the windmill! Dozens of ’em!”
George swallowed, and immediately choked. Coughing and spluttering, he pulled a huge white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his eyes.
The respite had given Marge time to get her own breath back. “Clara and I went up to look and they’re there, all right.”
George started to speak, coughed again, then said hoarsely, “You saw them? Did you see their uniforms? Did they have tanks? Guns?”
Marge’s stomach turned over in fright. Until that moment it hadn’t seemed real, more like a film she was acting in, but now it all seemed dreadfully, frightfully real. “We heard them,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “They were hiding up on the second floor but we heard them. Clara and me bolted out of there. We didn’t see no tanks, but-”
At that moment the door burst open. Marge screamed, while George leapt to his feet, his eyes looking ready to bulge right out of his head.
Clara fell through the doorway and landed on her knees. “I don’t feel well,” she moaned.
Marge patted her chest as her heart resumed beating. “Gawd, Clara. You gave us such a fright.”
George cleared his throat and sat down again. “Now then,” he said, in his pompous policeman’s voice, “let’s have the story from the beginning.”
“We don’t have time to tell the story!” Marge shouted, heaving herself to her feet. “You’ve got to ring the army, haven’t you. If we don’t get them first they’ll be all over the village. Heaven knows how many of them are hiding in the woods.” She caught her breath. “That�
��s probably where they’ve hidden the tanks!”
Looking startled, George dragged his gaze from Marge to Clara. “Did you see these Germans, too?”
Clara opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Marge yelled impatiently, “Of course she did!
Ring the blinking army before we all get captured and sent to them dreadful prison camps.”
Clara started crying. “I don’t want to go to prison! I want to go ho-o-ome!”
“Now look what you’ve done!” Marge rushed over to Clara and helped her up. “If you don’t ring the army right this minute I’m going to tell everyone it’s your fault Sitting Marsh is in the hands of the Germans. I wouldn’t be surprised if Adolf hisself walks down the High Street before too long.”
George reached for the telephone. “All right, all right. Just pipe down while I ring the army.”
“Ring the Yanks!” Clara said, apparently having recovered from her fright. “They’ll be here quicker.”
“Ring them both!” Marge started for the door, dragging Clara with her. “I’m going home to lock all my doors and windows. I’m not having no bloody Nazis poking around my belongings.”
Outside in the fresh air, she pulled in a deep breath. She’d done her duty. Now it was up to George and Sid to take care of things. Feeling proud of her contribution to the war effort, she started down the steps on wobbly knees. Just wait until Rita Crumm heard about this one.
It took Elizabeth the best part of an hour to ride to North Horsham and find the butcher’s shop. The rumbling in her stomach reminded her it had been several hours since she’d eaten breakfast and she promised herself that as soon as she’d talked to Ned Widdicombe, she’d have a spot of lunch at the fish and chip shop next door.
There were no customers in the butcher’s shop, which was really not surprising, considering the hour.
The housewives typically shopped first thing in the morning, queuing for whatever meager cuts of meat they could get on their weekly ration books. By noon they were back home preparing the midday meal.
It occurred to Elizabeth then that Violet was expecting her for lunch and was probably tearing her hair out wondering where she was and when she was coming home. Poor Violet. What with worrying about Martin’s mysterious nightly jaunts and now Elizabeth’s absence for lunch, it was no wonder the housekeeper was a little testy at times.
She’d take something home for tea, Elizabeth decided, as she spotted a bakery across the street. She had her coupon book with her, and at the very least, could buy a nice fresh loaf of bread, since bread wasn’t on ration.
Reaching the door of the butcher’s shop, she pushed it open and, to the tune of a tinkling bell, stepped inside. The smell of raw meat and sawdust was unpleasant, and she held her breath for a moment. There was no one behind the counter, and since the door was unlocked, she assumed the butcher had retreated to a back room.
She had hardly formed that opinion when a man emerged from a hallway at the back of the shop. Short in stature, his vast circumference made him look as wide as he was tall. He was clad in a white coat and a blue and white striped apron liberally smeared with blood.
In spite of her need to question the man, Elizabeth felt a strong urge to excuse herself and leave. A butcher’s shop always made her uneasy. Seeing all those dead carcasses hanging from hooks was unsettling, and the lethal-looking knives and choppers on the blood-soaked chopping board weren’t exactly reassuring, either.
The butcher stood in the shadows, as if reluctant to come forward. Obviously he resented being disturbed during his midday break. “What can I do for you?” he asked gruffly. “I don’t have much left this late in the day.”
Elizabeth let out her breath in a rush. “Oh, a pound of sausages, if you have them, please.”
The butcher grunted and moved over to the chopping block where strings of sausages hung in long strands. He reached up, took down a strand, chopped off a string of sausages, and threw them on the scales.
Elizabeth made herself move deeper into the frigid shop. “I was talking to Bob Redding this morning,” she said brightly. “I understand his wife was a very good friend of your late mother.”
The butcher turned to look at her and now she could see his face quite clearly. His beady little eyes were almost buried in layers of fat, and a nasty-looking scar divided one eyebrow and sliced down most of his cheek. “What’s it to you?” he said rudely.
Elizabeth wasn’t used to being spoken to in that deplorable manner. She drew herself up straight and said haughtily, “As lady of the manor in Sitting Marsh, it is my duty to protect and care for the villagers. Had I been aware that your elderly mother lived alone, I would have made it my business to look in on her now and then. I feel somewhat responsible for what happened when Clyde Morgan paid her a visit, and I regret that the unfortunate incident caused her death. I thought you might like to know that Mr. Morgan has now passed away.”
“So I heard.” Apparently unfazed by the presence of his illustrious visitor, Ned Widdicombe weighed the sausages, cut half of one off the end of the string, then wrapped the rest in white paper.
Elizabeth handed over her ration book and a half crown and waited for her change. “I’m sure that must bring some comfort to you,” she said when he handed her the coins and her ration book. “I can understand how you must have felt, losing your mother that way.”
The beady eyes narrowed. “I heard he shot himself.”
“Well, that was the assumption at first.” She decided to stretch the truth a bit. “There has been a development, however, that leads the constables to believe someone may have murdered Mr. Morgan.”
Ned Widdicombe moved back to the chopping block, picked up the remaining sausages, and strung them up with the others. “Good riddance, that’s what I say,” he muttered.
Realizing she was getting nowhere, Elizabeth said boldly, “I imagine the inspector will be questioning those people who might be able to shed light on the murder.”
Now she had the butcher’s full attention. He stared at her for several uncomfortable moments, then said sharply, “What’s that got to do with me?”
“Motive,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Your mother’s death was hastened by Mr. Morgan’s actions, was it not? I think that’s a strong motive for murder, don’t you?”
The butcher continued to stare at her in silence for another long moment, then startled her by erupting into hoarse laughter. “My mother was eighty-four years old,” he said when his irreverent mirth had subsided.
“She was on her last legs as it were. Besides, all that happened weeks ago. If I was going to do the miserable bugger in, I would have done it before now.”
She’d heard that somewhere before, Elizabeth vaguely remembered. “Sometimes one has to wait for the right circumstances,” she murmured.
“Oh, you an expert on murdering, then?”
She smiled, though it was the last thing she felt like doing. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
The butcher dug his fists into the mounds of fat around his waist. “Well, your ladyship, for your information, I was here in the shop the night Morgan died. Doing my accounting, if you must know.”
Elizabeth carefully put away the ration book in her handbag and slipped the coins into her small purse. “I don’t remember mentioning that Mr. Morgan had died during the night,” she murmured.
“It were in the newspaper, weren’t it.”
“Were you alone when you were doing the accounting?”
“No, I weren’t. My wife was with me, wasn’t she. She’ll tell you. So you can stop your bloody snooping and get out of my shop.” He paused, then added with a decided sneer, “Your ladyship.”
It was definitely time to go. Without a word, she twisted around and stalked out of the shop.
She dearly would have loved to speak to Mrs. Widdicombe, but apart from the fact that she had no idea where to find her, and it was doubtful the sinister butcher would have enlightened her, there was no doubt in her mind t
hat the woman would vouch for her husband, whether or not she was with him that night. Ned Widdicombe was a particularly nasty specimen, and seemed quite capable of terrorizing his wife into submission.
Seated by the window in the sparse eating area of the fish and chip shop a few minutes later, she spotted the butcher leaving his shop, locking the door behind him before hurrying off down the street. No doubt he was on his way to warn his wife to confirm his alibi in case of further questioning. Just as well she hadn’t sought out Mrs. Widdicombe. She had no wish to encounter that man again.
Although her appetite had been somewhat tempered by the disturbing exchange, Elizabeth managed to enjoy a plate of cod and chips lathered with malt vinegar and sprinkled generously with salt, a thick slice of bread and butter, and two pickled onions, washed down with a cup of piping hot tea. Absolutely delightful.
Feeling invigorated by the meal, she left the shop and climbed aboard her motorcycle. There was plenty of time before she needed to be back in the village, she decided. There was one more stop she’d like to make before returning home.
There was only one sanitarium in North Horsham, so it took no more than a few minutes to locate it on the outskirts of town. Surrounded by trees, the imposing dark brick building looked rather intimidating as Elizabeth paused at the heavy wrought-iron gates. At least this was one gate that hadn’t been melted down to make airplanes, she thought wryly.
After ringing the bell, she gave her name to the uniformed nurse who hurried down to greet her. Leaving her motorcycle parked outside, she followed the nurse up the long driveway to a wide flight of steps leading to massive doors.
Another bell summoned someone else from inside, and the drawing of heavy bolts reminded Elizabeth of her own front door. She half expected to see Martin standing there as the door opened, but she was greeted instead by a fresh-faced young woman in a nurse’s uniform.
Both women seemed impressed by her presence, and, her dignity restored, Elizabeth asked to see Sheila Redding, explaining she was a friend of the family.
An Unmentional Murder Page 11