“Who saw Mr. Winterhalter leave the kitchen?”
“It were Nellie Smith,” George answered, beating Sid to the punch. “And that’s me last word on the subject.” He sent Sid a meaningful look. “And yours.”
“Well, thank you. Both of you.” Elizabeth straddled the saddle of her motorcycle. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have my own investigation to conduct.”
“The inspector won’t like you interfering, m’m,” George warned.
“The inspector,” Elizabeth said, rising up to kick start the engine, “will thank me when I save him, and you, George, from a grave miscarriage of justice.”
“If you find out anything, your ladyship, you’re under an obligation-”
The rest of George’s words were drowned out by the roar of the motorcycle’s engine. Smiling and waving, Elizabeth soared off down the street, narrowly missing a startled housewife scurrying across the road.
No matter what George thought, Elizabeth told herself as she rode down the hill, she would not believe Rodney had stabbed Brian Sutcliffe. He had been too distraught at the thought of his daughter possibly being involved.
Nor did she believe that Tess had killed her lover. But she intended to make quite certain of that before she tackled the other people on her list.
Arriving back at the village hall, she parked her motorcycle and cut the engine. She had taken longer than she had intended to deliver Bessie’s china to the shop. She could only hope Bessie was still inside.
To her relief, not only was Bessie still there, but several members of the Housewives League stood about, apparently finishing up the cleanup. She spotted Nellie in the group, and headed over to her, intent on speaking to the young lady before she left.
Elizabeth wasted no time in coming to the point when she drew Nellie aside. “I understand you saw Rodney Winterhalter leaving the kitchen yesterday afternoon about the time of the murder,” she said.
Nellie looked apprehensive. “I didn’t want to get no one in trouble, your ladyship, but George did ask and I had to say what I saw.”
Elizabeth nodded. “It’s all right, Nellie. What exactly did you see?”
“Well, it were a little while before all that fuss about the missing knife. I seen Mr. Winterhalter rushing out of the kitchen, and he looked really upset about something. I wondered at the time what he was doing in there, but then Florrie went in to get the knife and came running out again to say it were missing and, well, you heard the rest.”
“Did you see where Mr. Winterhalter went after he left the kitchen?”
Nellie shook her head. “I was too busy helping Florrie look for the knife.”
“Very well. Thank you, Nellie.” Elizabeth smiled at the worried-looking girl. “You did the right thing. Please don’t give it another thought.”
“Yes, m’m.” Still looking concerned, Nellie went back to join the group that was now stacking chairs against the walls.
Bessie seemed to have disappeared, and Elizabeth hurried into the kitchen, hoping to find her in there. Pleased to find her alone, Elizabeth complimented her on the fine job she had done with the wedding.
“There’s just one thing I’d like to ask you,” she said, when Bessie thanked her. “You said yesterday that you found the key to the cellar in a milk jug. Where exactly was it standing when Florrie picked it up to empty it?”
Bessie pointed to a table by the wall. “It were on there, m’m.”
Elizabeth walked over to the table, followed by an anxious Bessie. “On here?” She pointed to the table.
“Yes, m’m. Right here.” Bessie patted the table.
Elizabeth raised her gaze to the shelf above the table. “Were you using this shelf for anything yesterday?”
“No, m’m, we weren’t. It’s in an awkward spot, isn’t it. We’d have to have really long arms to reach up there across the table.”
“Which is probably why the key fell off,” Elizabeth murmured.
Bessie poked her head forward. “What did you say, your ladyship?”
“No matter.” Elizabeth looked around. “Everything looks spick and span, Bessie. You and the rest of the Housewives League provided a lovely wedding for Priscilla and Wally. I know they must be so grateful to you all.”
Bessie’s smile was radiant. “We were all happy to do it, m’m. Everyone likes Prissy, and Captain Carbunkle is a good sort. They’ll be happy together, I know.” She glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure they were alone. “Can’t imagine our Prissy having a friend like that Fiona. Not a bit alike, are they. Someone said Fiona married an old bloke for his money and when he died he left her a fortune. Bit of a fly-by-night if you ask me. I wouldn’t have thought Prissy would be that friendly with someone like that.”
Elizabeth wondered if Bessie had heard about Fiona’s indiscretion with the murdered man, but thought better about asking her. “Well, they hadn’t seen each other in thirty years. I’m sure they both must have changed in that time. Anyway, I must be off. Violet will be getting supper and I don’t want to be late. Oh, before I go, could you let me have the address of the photographer. Dickie Muggins, I believe?”
“Yes, m’m. I have it right here in my handbag. Just a minute.” Bessie bustled across the kitchen to a tall cupboard and opened it. She came bag with a large black handbag tucked under her arm. “He’s a good photographer, m’m. I’ve seen some of his photographs. Lovely they are. He’s a bit of a fusspot, and some people make fun of him for it, but he knows what he’s doing all right, I’ll say that for him.”
Thank you, Bessie.” Elizabeth took the neatly inscribed card from Bessie and tucked it in her pocket. “I’ll let you have it back next time I visit the tea shop.”
“Oh, no need, your ladyship. I have some more. Dickie’s mother gave them to me. He’s just started his business, and he’s looking for more clients. He’ll be pleased to hear from you, I’m sure.”
Elizabeth rather doubted that. She wasn’t looking to hire him, but merely ask him a few questions. She didn’t see the need to tell Bessie that, however.
She left the hall deep in thought and returned to the manor, convinced now that Tess had not killed Brian Sutcliffe. The girl had no reason to lie about leaving the key in the lock. Moreover, if she was telling the truth she’d heard Brian pounding on the door when she left, which meant he was still alive at that point.
Someone else must have removed the key from the cellar door. It seemed reasonable to assume that that person did so to delay the discovery of the body. Someone could have heard Brian pounding on the door, unlocked it, and confronted an angry man with a knife in his hand. What then? Reacted without thinking and pushed him down the stairs, causing him to fall on the knife, as Tess had surmised? Or had someone taken the opportunity to get rid of a man who was causing more trouble than was bearable?
A milk jug full of milk seemed an odd place to hide a key. But what if the killer intended to hide it on the shelf? Then, unnerved and in a hurry to leave, stretched out to reach the shelf and fumbled the key, dropping it into the milk jug. That made a lot more sense.
Tess was far too short to even think about reaching the shelf. Rodney, on the other hand, could have managed it. Rodney, who hated Brian Sutcliffe and would protect his daughter at any cost.
Seated on the white wicker couch in her conservatory, Elizabeth gave the matter some intense thought. Could she be mistaken about Rodney, after all? She kept hearing Daphne’s shocked tones when she’d heard the news. My God, Rodney. What have you done?
He had denied it, of course. But his denials, like his concern about his daughter’s possible guilt, could have been fabricated for her benefit. She would have to talk to him again. Though she could hardly accuse him of murder without some kind of proof or justification.
Sighing, she withdrew the paper she’d tucked into her pocket earlier and studied it. Neville Carbunkle had mentioned he’d seen Dickie Muggins in the kitchen arguing with Brian. She was anxious to talk to the photographer, but it would
have to wait until tomorrow. Until then, she’d hold her judgment on Rodney, in the hopes that Mr. Muggins could shed new light on the puzzle.
Glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, she noticed with some surprise that it was long past the time when Violet usually rang the bell for supper. Violet was never late with the meals. Unless she was ill.
Concerned, Elizabeth rose to her feet and hurried to the kitchen. Her anxiety deepened when she opened the door and no smell of cooking greeted her. In fact, the kitchen was as neat and clean as Violet usually left it last thing at night.
Frowning, Elizabeth headed for the pantry, expecting to find her housekeeper rummaging about in there. Instead, she found Martin, in the act of helping himself to a large chunk of cheese.
He swung around as she entered and, upon seeing her, jumped so violently he almost dropped the plate he held. By some miracle he righted it before the cheese slid off and peered at her over the rims of his glasses.
“You startled me, madam. I thought it was Violet, coming back to spy on me.”
“Now why would she do that?” Elizabeth noticed the jar of pickled onions he’d taken down from the shelf. “Where is Violet, anyway? Why isn’t she cooking supper?”
“Why, indeed,” Martin said mournfully. “I asked her that very question myself.”
Elizabeth waited, until it became obvious Martin wasn’t going to continue and she was forced to ask, “So what did she say when you asked her?”
Martin placed the butcher knife he’d used on the cheese back in it’s slot on the wall. “When I asked her what, madam?”
Elizabeth reminded herself that Martin was very old, somewhat senile, and one had to use infinite patience when dealing with him. “What did Violet say when you asked her why she isn’t cooking supper?”
Martin thought about it. “Oh, yes. Now I remember. She said we were to eat the leftover stew.” He pointed to a large pot on the shelf. “I looked at it, but it’s cold. I decided I would prefer my ration of cheese and pickled onions. With buttered bread, of course.”
“We don’t have butter,” Elizabeth reminded him. “Only margarine.”
“Then I shall endeavor to do without. That dratted stuff tastes like axle grease.”
Elizabeth was inclined to agree with him. “Is Violet ill? Did she say she was going to bed?”
“No, madam.” Martin picked up the jar of pickled onions and tucked it under his arm. “She said she was going out. She asked me to serve the stew to the Winterhalters, which I did.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. In all the years she had known Violet, and that had been all her life, she had never known the housekeeper to go out on a Sunday night. Especially when they had guests in the house. In fact, Violet rarely went out at night at all, unless it was a special event, such as the wedding. “Did she say where she was going? Is she walking?”
“No, madam. She went off in one of those infernal contraptions that make all that blasted noise and belch evil-smelling smoke everywhere, poisoning the very air we breathe.”
“Do you mean a Jeep?” For the life of her, Elizabeth couldn’t imagine Violet riding in a Jeep.
“No, madam. I mean a motor car.”
Thoroughly mystified now, Elizabeth followed Martin out into the kitchen. “Who was driving it?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that, madam. I couldn’t see his face.” Martin placed his cheese and pickled onions on the table, then opened the bread bin and took out a small loaf of bread. “Would you care to join me, madam?”
Elizabeth eyed the bread and cheese. “I don’t think so, Martin. But please, don’t let my presence prevent you from enjoying your supper.”
“Very well, madam. But since you won’t be joining me, if I may, I should like to enjoy it in my own room.”
“Of course you may, Martin.”
“Thank you, madam.”
She watched him shuffle out the door, not without some difficulty since he was carrying the bread under one arm, the pickled onions under the other, and the plate of cheese balanced in between. She knew better than to offer her help, however. Martin became rather testy if there was the slightest hint he could not manage his own affairs.
She watched the door close behind him, her thoughts going back to Violet. She had not the slightest idea where her housekeeper might have gone. She could only hope that Violet was not in some kind of trouble. If so, there was nothing Elizabeth could do about it but wait for her housekeeper to return.
CHAPTER 7
“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.�
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“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.
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