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 ladys.h.i.+p? 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 gla.s.s and pushed it toward her.

She could smell the sweet, tangy aroma of it even before she lifted the gla.s.s 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 ladys.h.i.+p."

"Oh, yes. Mr. Murphy, isn't it? You own a fis.h.i.+ng boat, I believe."

The young man nodded. "Yes, m'm. The Murphys have been fis.h.i.+ng 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 ladys.h.i.+p. 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."

"d.i.c.kie, 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. "d.i.c.kie 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, d.i.c.kie 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 thinka""

Alfie ignored him. "You know. A fruit."

Elizabeth stared at him blankly.

Alfie flapped his fingers at her. "A queer, your ladys.h.i.+p."

"Alfie, I really don't thinka"" 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 d.i.c.kie would look lovely in a wedding dress, and . . . well, things like that. d.i.c.kie 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. d.i.c.kie 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.

CHAPTER 8.

Marge stood with the others and watched Nellie walk slowly up the road and disappear around the curve. Rita beckoned with an imperious wave of her hand and they set off after her. When they got quite a bit closer, Rita flapped her hand in a command for them to stop, and they halted, obeying Rita's signal to remain silent.

Rita crept forward, bent double at the waist, using the bushes on the gra.s.s verge to s.h.i.+eld her. One by one, the rest of the housewives crept forward. Marge was the third to go, and she had a lot of trouble bending down low enough to be hidden as she crept toward her bush.

They were too far away to hear anything, but Marge had a pretty good view of what was going on. She could see Nellie pointing down the road away from the women, saying something that made the three men turn to look in that direction.

They stood close to the edge of the cliffs, and the Jeep's front wheels rested on top of the barbed wire that ran along the other side of the railings. It did look as if they were trying to push the Jeep over the cliffs, where it would crash to the beach below.

Marge felt a s.h.i.+ver go all the way down her back. Didn't they realize there were mines hidden in the sand? No one knew where they were. If one went off when Nellie was standing that close to the edge she could get really hurt. Even killed. Marge felt sick again. They should never have let her go up there. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Nellie had turned back to the men now and seemed to be arguing with them. Marge heard Rita mutter something, and then everything happened at once.

Marge could hardly believe her eyes when she saw Nellie reach out and grab the scarf from one of the men's faces. Rita rose to her feet, but before she had time to gather breath to yell, the man grabbed hold of Nellie while the other two dragged the Jeep back onto the road.

"Come on," Rita roared, "after them!"

"Oh, p.o.o.p," Marge muttered, and scrambled to her feet.

Rita galloped toward Nellie, screeching at the top of her lungs. Several of the women followed her, but more at a fast walk than a trot. Marge struggled valiantly to keep up, and even managed to pa.s.s a couple of the slower members.

It was all a wasted effort, after all. Rita was within a few feet when Nellie was thrust into the back of the Jeep, all three men jumped in at once, and the vehicle bounced off across the gra.s.s and onto the coast road. By the time the rest of them caught up with Rita, Nellie and her captors had disappeared.

"All right, what do I put next?" Sadie stuck the end of the pen in her mouth and stared down at her untidy scrawl. "He's never going to be able to read this mess."

"He will if you write slower." Polly bounced up and down on her bed. "You're scribbling that as if the end of the world is coming."

Leaning her elbows on Polly's dressing table, Sadie sighed. "I'm not used to writing letters. I don't write much at all, really. Once I got out of school I never bothered with it."

"Well, you should, or you'll forget how to do it." She held out her hand. "Let me read it."

Reluctantly, Sadie handed it over.

Polly scanned the few lines, a frown marring her face. "*Dear soldier,'" she read out. "*My name is Sadie b.u.t.tons and I work as a housemaid at the Manor House'" She looked up. "Is that all you wrote so far?"

Sadie shrugged. "I don't know what to put."

Polly shook her head and handed the letter back. "All right, start by telling him what you like."

"I can't put that in a letter!"

"Not that, silly." Polly reached across the bed to push a hand under her pillow. "Here, read this. It's from Marlene and she says what the soldiers want to hear."

Sadie took the crumpled pages from her and read through them. "They want to know what my life is like and what's going on in the village?"

"Yeah, ordinary sort of stuff. It's what they miss most, Marlene says. Just the everyday goings on."

"Sounds boring." Sadie scowled. "Nothing exciting ever happens in Sitting Marsh."

Polly gasped. "How can you say that, Sadie b.u.t.tons! Just yesterday a bloke got himself killed at a wedding."

"I can't tell a stranger that! He'd think we lived in a den of iniquity."

"What does that mean?"

"I dunno, but it sounds evil."

"Well, then, tell him about the summer fete, and about going to the pictures in North Horsham, and who your favorite film stars are, and what music you like, and your favorite songa""

"All right, all right," Sadie muttered, scribbling like mad. "That's enough to fill two letters."