Wedding Rows (15 page)

“Now,” Rita announced, “I’m going to pair you off. Each pair will go in a different direction. You all have your whistles, don’t you?”

A few of the women nodded: a couple of them held up the whistles hanging around their necks.

“Just to make sure,” Rita insisted, “I want everyone to blow their whistles. Once.”

Unfortunately, her last word was drowned out by a chorus of shrill screams from the women’s whistles. Jumping up and down, Rita waved her arms in an attempt to quiet them. No one paid any attention to her. In fact, they seemed determined to outdo each other, blowing until their faces were red.

In the midst of all the horrendous racket, George came running out of the station, with Sid hot on his heels. “ ’Ere, ’ere,” George yelled, “what’s all this then?”

“Crikey!” Sid shouted. “I thought it was the bloomin’ invasion.”

“Shut up,
shut up!
” Rita screeched, only adding to the noise.

Finally, George went down the line, tugging whistles from the mouths of the grinning women. “It’s about time you lot learned to keep order,” George grumbled. “This is serious business. One of your members is missing, in the hands of hardened criminals. I should think you’d all be more worried about her than tormenting your leader.”

The women sobered at once, exchanging sheepish glances. “Sorry, Rita,” Florrie said, always the first to kiss Rita’s boots. “We didn’t mean no harm.”

Red in the face herself, Rita pulled herself up straight as a ramrod. “Now listen to me,” she barked. “Nellie’s life could depend on how fast we find her. I suggest we get to it and start looking for her.” She called off names and gave them the direction in which they had to go.

Marge wasn’t too happy to find she was paired with Florrie. She’d have much rather been with her mate, Clara, who wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone. Florrie was such a baby, jumping at every little noise and always afraid the Germans were going to come and take her away. Though why on earth the Nazis would want her, Marge couldn’t imagine.

She managed to wave to Clara as they set off, happy to notice her friend didn’t seem any happier than she was with her partner, Joan Plumstone. Joan was all right, but she hardly ever smiled, and if she ever really laughed she’d crack her face. Clara wouldn’t like that. She liked to joke around all the time. Though Marge had to admit, Nellie being missing wasn’t much of a joke.

“Come on,” she said to Florrie, who looked as if she’d wet her drawers any minute, “we’ve got a long walk before we get to the woods. We need to hurry.”

“I can’t hurry too much,” Florrie said in her whiney voice. “My feet hurt.”

Blimey, they’d barely started and her blinking feet hurt already? Marge heaved a sigh. This was not going to be much fun.

 

Nellie pulled her knees up under her chin and watched the sunlight creeping through the cracks in the barn walls. She’d heard her captors come back hours ago. From what she could hear, their mission, whatever that was, had failed. They would have to try again tonight.

She was hungry and thirsty, and she needed to piddle. The thought of enduring another day and night in this horrible place was enough to drive her barmy. Right now the three of them were sleeping.

When she thought about the lousy night she’d had, trying to sleep on the hard floor, she got really, really mad. Bloody sods. She’d like to ram their teeth down their throat. Her anger goaded her into action. She slid forward until she was close to the edge of the ledge and could look down.

They were right below her, lying on their backs, mouths open, sleeping like babies. Well, she’d settle that. In her temper she kicked a pile of hay over the ledge.

It showered down on the three below. None of them moved. Not even when some of it went in Stan’s mouth. He just blew it out with his next breath.

Frustrated and angrier than ever, Nellie eyed the lamp. That would make a nice noise. She picked it up and hurled it to the ground. It landed with an almighty crash and a splintering of glass.

“What the . . . ?” Stan sat up and rubbed his eyes.

Robbie rolled over and stared sleepily at him. “Watcha doing?”

“I didn’t do nothing. The lamp fell down.” Stan looked up, straight into Nellie’s face. “No, it didn’t. That bitch threw it down. It could’ve killed one of us.”

“Too bad it didn’t,” Nellie said nastily.

“’Ere, watch it. Or I’ll come up there and show you what for.”

“You and whose bleeding army?”

“Just me, that’s who.”

“Shut up, Stan. Don’t let her lead you on,” Jimmy said.

Nellie sat on the edge of the ledge, her legs dangling over their heads. “What makes you think the bobbies are going to mistake you for the musketeers, anyhow? Them blokes are a lot older than you. How old are you anyway? Thirteen?”

Robbie snorted. “We’re fifteen, stupid.”

“Shut up,” Stan warned.

“Fifteen.” Nellie shook her head. “Old enough to know better. You’re never going to get away with this, you know. The bobbies will know you’re not the musketeers. They’re a lot more clever than you are. They wouldn’t have messed up a mission.”

“We didn’t mess it up,” Robbie muttered. “We couldn’t get on the base, that’s all.”

Both his companions turned on him. “Shut your mouth!” they snarled in unison.

Nellie felt a stab of hope. “Is that your mission? To get on the American base?”

“Never mind what our mission is. Just keep your nose out of it if you don’t want it smashed in.”

Nellie smiled. “What if I was to tell you I know how to get you on the base?”

All three boys stared up at her. How’d you know that?” Stan demanded.

Sadie shrugged. “Been on it enough times, haven’t I. I know all the tricks. I could get you in and out without anyone knowing you’d been there. That’s as long as you didn’t mess things up while you was there.”

“Why would you want to help us do that?” Stan asked, his voice full of suspicion.

“It’s blinking obvious, isn’t it. I tell you how to get on the base, and you let me go.” She waited, holding her breath, for his answer. If they didn’t let her go soon, she didn’t know what she was going to do.

CHAPTER 10

Elizabeth sat at her desk in her office and reached for the telephone. Polly was out collecting the rents, giving her the chance to ring Dr. Sheridan and find out what she could about Brian Sutcliffe’s murder. As usual, the doctor was wary about answering her questions.

“All I can tell you,” he said, when she’d refused to be deterred from her quest, “is that the knife used to stab the victim had an unusually long blade.”

“Yes, the wedding cake knife belonging to Mrs. Crumm,” Elizabeth said impatiently. “I already know that. I want to know if there is anything else you can tell me.”

“Perhaps you should talk to P. C. Dalrymple.”

“I’ve already talked to George. Now I’m talking to you.”

“Well, I suppose it won’t hurt anything to tell you that the victim also had a head injury. Though that wasn’t what killed him, of course. The knife did that. Went right through the heart.” The doctor paused, then added quietly, “I’d say the killer knew exactly the right spot to stab him.”

Elizabeth thanked him and hung up the telephone. Now she knew why George suspected Rodney Winterhalter. Surely no one knew how to stab a man through the heart better than a surgeon.

Things looked black for Rodney. He certainly had motive and opportunity. In spite of all that, Elizabeth had a strong feeling that he didn’t kill Brian Sutcliffe, and that somewhere in the back of her mind she held the key to the real killer.

She knew from experience that if she left the niggling hunch alone and stopped worrying at it, sooner or later the solution would occur to her. She’d have to trust her instincts and hope that it happened in time to save Rodney from a most unpleasant situation.

Elizabeth was almost at the front door when she heard the telephone ringing again in the kitchen. Her heart jumped, knowing Violet would answer it when she didn’t pick up in her office.

Racing across the hallway, she heard the ringing stop and prayed she’d be in time before Violet hung up. “I’m here!” she called out as she ran down the stairs. “Tell whoever it is to hold on!” with her hands raised she pushed the door open and burst into the kitchen.

Violet stood across the room with a smug look on her face, the telephone in her hand. “How’d you know it was him?”

Elizabeth caught her breath. “Who is it?”

“Your major, of course.” She held the receiver out to her. “I was just telling him you’d gone out.”

Elizabeth made herself walk casually across the kitchen and took the telephone out of Violet’s hand. “I thought it might be George again.”

Violet grinned. “Yeah, and I thought Father Christmas really flies down the chimney.”

Elizabeth made a face at her and spoke into the mouthpiece.

His deep voice chased away all her worries. “I’m fine,” he assured her in answer to her anxious question. “Violet said you’re having some excitement, though.”

She told him about Nellie and the search going on for her.

“I heard the musketeers were on the prowl again,” Earl said, when she was finished. “Seems our boys found a Jeep smashed on the beach this morning. Looked like it had been shoved over the cliff.”

“Oh, my. Thank heavens it didn’t set off a mine. Rita would have had half the village out there defending the beaches against an invasion.”

“No kidding. Let’s hope the search party finds Nellie today.”

“Anyway, I’ll be joining the search party later on, but first I want to talk to Dickie Muggins about the murder. It seems he had a violent argument with Brian Sutcliffe the night before the wedding.”

“I suppose it’s useless to suggest that you let George and Sid conduct that investigation.”

“Quite useless.”

“That’s what I thought. How’s it coming along?”

“Well, George seems convinced that Rodney killed Brian, and I have to admit, circumstances do point to him, though there’s no proof at all. It’s pure conjecture at this point.”

“What do
you
think?”

“I don’t know.” She pondered on that for a moment, then added slowly, “I think I need to ask a few more questions before I make up my mind.”

“Well, just be careful, okay?”

“I will if you will.”

“I’m always careful.”

She smiled. “I wish I could believe that. When will you be coming home, or is that something else you can’t tell me?”

There was an odd pause, then he said softly, “‘Home.’ That sounds so darn good. Wish I could be there right now.”

Aware of Violet bustling around in the background, she said fervently, “Oh, so do I.”

“Well, with any luck, it won’t be long. One thing I can tell you, I’ll be there just as soon as possible.”

“I know.” She lowered her voice. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too, sweetheart.”

She hung up the telephone, her eyes moist. Without looking at Violet she headed for the door. “I’ll be back in time for dinner,” she said, not trusting her voice to say more.

For once, Violet didn’t give her a cheeky reply.

 

“Come on, Florrie.” For the tenth time that morning Marge paused, waiting for Florrie to catch up with her. She was thoroughly fed up. All Florrie had done was whine ever since they started down the trail through the woods. Marge watched her companion trudge slowly toward her, stopping every now and then to wipe her brow.

“I’m thirsty,” Florrie complained, “and it’s getting hot.”

Marge had to agree; it was getting awfully warm and muggy. Unusual for the end of May. Must be a storm coming. “Well, come on, we’re almost out of our side of the woods, and Rita said once we get out the other side we should start back to the village.”

“It’s such a long walk back from here,” Florrie moaned. “I’ll never get there. Me feet are all blistered.”

Marge looked at Florrie’s feet. “I’m not surprised. Where on earth did you get those shoes? The rag bag?”

Florrie looked offended. “They’re the most comfortable shoes I’ve got. I’ve had them for years.”

“Bloomin’ looks like it, too.” Marge started walking again, impatient for the search to be over so she could get back to the tea room and have a currant bun and a nice hot cup of tea. They weren’t going to find Nellie in the woods. She was sure of that. It was too easy to get lost in all the trees unless you stuck to the trails, and if she were tied up somewhere, as Rita seemed to think, they’d have surely found her by now.

“Wait for me!” Florrie whined behind her.

Marge stomped on. She wouldn’t put it past Nellie to be messing about with them musketeers, having a good time with them, instead of in danger like Rita said. Somehow Nellie being in danger didn’t seem real.

War was real. Bombs falling and soldiers fighting and planes going down in the ocean. All that was real. People just didn’t go around kidnapping strangers in wartime. There was too much else to worry about. Them musketeers had taken Nellie for a lark, and she was probably back in Bessie’s tea room, telling everyone what a good time she had.

Having salved her conscience, Marge was prepared to make straight for the lane that would lead them back to the main road. To heck with plodding through the rest of the woods. Nellie wasn’t here, and that was that.

“Come on, Florrie,” she called out. “We’re going back home.” Judging whereabouts the lane would be, she veered off the trail to the right and headed in that direction. It took longer than she thought, and she had to struggle up and down banks, squeeze through shrubbery, and climb over fallen logs before she finally sighted the clearing up ahead.

Lost in her thoughts, she’d forgotten about Florrie, until she turned around and saw no sign of her. “Florrie?” She waited, expecting to hear Florrie’s whine, but only the birds twittering in the trees answered her.