“How long are we supposed to be out here anyway?” Clara whined, wrapping her cardigan closer around her thin body. “My boys will be wanting their dinner before too long.”
“It won’t hurt them to wait a bit.” Marge lifted the field glasses and peered through them. She could see nothing but a flat ocean and a sky studded with puffy clouds. No dark shadows beneath the surface that might suggest an enemy submarine. No pinpoints of light twinkling signals to someone onshore. It was all so bloody boring.
“I don’t know if they will wait,” Clara grumbled. She leaned back on the hard park bench and stretched out her legs in front of her. “They’re growing lads, you know.”
Marge lowered the field glasses. “They’re always eating, your boys. I don’t know how you manage it with everything on ration like it is.”
“I fill ’em up with bread and potatoes. At least we can get plenty of that.” Clara held out her hand. “Want me to look for a bit?”
“Nah. There’s nothing out there. I don’t know why Rita’s so blinking anxious to have us sit out here all morning. If anything’s coming in from the beach they’re not going to do it in daylight, now are they?”
Clara shrugged her shoulders. “Dunno. They might, if they want to get across the sand without stepping on a mine.”
“Well, all I can say is, if I were a German, I’d wait until it was dark and take my chances with the mines.”
“Seeing as how the rag and bone man got shot in the head by a German, I’d say they’re already here.”
Marge’s stomach did a somersault. “Gawd almighty, I never thought of that. All Rita said was that there might be a spy in the village.”
“There could be a whole lot of them. A whole bloody German battalion. How the ’eck would we know if they came in the middle of the night? There’s no one out here to watch for them at night. No one wants to leave their children alone at night to watch for Germans.”
Marge’s heart started banging away like a big bass drum as Clara began wailing in a high-pitched voice, “What’ll we do if they’re here already? We can’t fight them all by ourselves. They’ll take us away and put us in one of them terrible prison camps!”
Already Marge could envision them all starving and freezing to death, staring through the wire fences at the guards pointing guns at them. The picture made her feel faint. Determined not to let Clara know how frightened she was, she said stoutly, “Of course we can’t fight them on our own. That’s what the army’s for, silly. We’ll just ring the army base in Beerstowe from the post office and tell them where they are.”
“But we don’t know where they are!” Clara wailed even louder.
“Well, we’ll just have to find them then.”
“The American base is closer,” Clara said, visibly shivering now. “We could get the Yanks to come. They’ve got guns, too. They’d get here quicker.”
“We’ll ring them both,” Marge assured her. “And the constables. But first we have to find them.”
“Where could they be? Do you think they’re hiding in the woods?”
“They might be.” Marge frowned. The idea of traipsing through the woods looking for Germans who could jump out on them any moment or even shoot them was not her idea of a fun afternoon. A thought struck her and she brightened. “You know what? I think they’d hide in the old windmill. They could keep watch from the windows at the top and they’d have shelter at night if it rained.” The more she thought about it, the more feasible it seemed. “Yes, that’s where they’d be. I think we should look there first.”
Clara didn’t seem at all enthusiastic about the idea. “Why don’t we just tell the constables where we think they are? Then they can call in the army.”
“Don’t be daft.” Marge shook her head in disgust. “We’re going to look right ninnies, aren’t we, if we call in the army and there’s no one there. First we have to go up there and make sure they’re there, then we can go back to the village and raise merry hell.”
“I don’t think-,” Clara began, but Marge, who was impatient to get it over with and get back home where it was safe, wouldn’t let her finish.
“We’re going,” she said firmly. “It won’t take that long to walk out there and take a peek at the windmill.”
“It’s an awfully long way back,” Clara muttered. “ ’ Specially if we have to run all the way.”
Marge crossed her arms across her chest and glared at her friend. “Do you want to win this war or not? How are we going to save the village if we sit on our backsides and do nothing? That’s what we joined the Housewives League for, wasn’t it? To protect the village?”
“Actually I joined it for the knitting parties,” Clara mumbled.
Marge let out her breath in disgust. “Come on. Let’s get one over on Rita. She’ll never forgive us if we manage to get a whole battalion of Germans captured. We’ll probably be in all the newspapers and on the wireless news.”
Clara’s eyes widened. “You really think so? Rita will be so cross.”
“Green with bloody envy, that’s what she’ll be.” Marge grinned. “I can’t wait to see her face when she finds out.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Come on, let’s go and find those Nazis before someone else gets there first. This is one war effort we’re going to do all by ourselves.”
Having sent Polly out to collect the rents, Elizabeth had the office to herself that morning. She found it impossible to concentrate on anything, however. A considerable portion of her mind was engaged in the hope that Earl would call, even though he’d warned her that it could be some time before he could contact her again.
Rather than sit there in what she knew was hopeless futility, she decided to call on Bob Redding. In spite of the favorable opinions she’d heard about the man, she wanted to satisfy herself that he hadn’t taken a gun and ended the life of the man who had more or less killed his daughter.
Her conviction that Clyde Morgan was murdered had grown stronger, fueled more by a hunch than anything else. Still, there was a familiar feeling niggling at her brain that told her she was missing something somewhere, and until she discovered what it was, she was compelled to search every avenue open to her. Bob Redding was at the top of the list.
She gave Alfie a ring, and learned that the Reddings lived in one of the cottages down by the bay. Apparently Mr. Redding had been a fisherman before he was called to duty, and no doubt planned on continuing his profession when he returned from the war for good, God willing.
She was halfway down the stairs when the bell clanged, announcing a visitor. Expecting Martin to materialize, she continued down at a leisurely pace, until it dawned on her that Martin wasn’t there to open the door.
It didn’t appear as if Violet planned on opening it either, probably because she expected Sadie to attend to it. Since there was no sign of the housemaid, Elizabeth had to assume she was somewhere at the other end of the mansion, probably cleaning up after the departure of the American officers.
There was nothing for it but to open the door herself. It took her a few moments to tug back the bolts and latches that held the massive door in place, during which the bell clanged loudly twice, nearly deafening her. As usual, she inwardly cursed the process, vowing as she always did to replace all those bolts and latches with a modern lock and electric bell.
Finally she slid the last bolt back and dragged the door open, breathing a little hard with the exertion. No wonder Martin took forever to open the door, she thought, then stared in shock as she recognized the visitor.
The object of her recent thoughts smiled back at her. “Good morning, madam. I do appreciate your taking the time and trouble to open the door for me. Your pleasant demeanor is a vast improvement over Violet’s sour face and caustic tone, I can assure you.” Martin doffed the trilby he wore and swept it in front of him with a deep bow. “I am forever in your debt.”
Elizabeth’s first thought was that her butler had been imbibing spirits of some sort. Her relief at seeing him made her voice sharp. “Martin, where on earth have you been?”
Martin blinked at her over the top of his glasses. The half dozen hairs on his head, disturbed by the removal of his hat, stood on end, waving in the breeze. There was something different about him, Elizabeth thought, though she couldn’t put her finger on it.
Maybe he was standing a little straighter than usual, his eyes brighter than usual… something. The obvious answer that sprang to mind was the raffle ticket lady, Beatrice whatever-her-name-was. “Martin, have you been visiting your raffle lady friend?”
