feast this morning? Not more of that loathsome porridge, I trust.”
Violet sniffed and turned back to the stove. “You could always go and eat corn with the chickens.”
A puzzled frown marred Martin’s brow. “I wasn’t aware we kept chickens on the estate.”
“We don’t,” Violet snapped. “I was talking about Farmer Miller’s chickens.”
This was apparently too much for Martin to comprehend.
While he was still working on it, Elizabeth leaned forward. “The telephone rang for you last night.”
An odd expression flickered across his face. “I didn’t hear it.”
Violet tutted. “Because you were in bed, you silly old goat.”
Martin sent her a withering glance. “Well, that would certainly explain why, of course.”
“It was the War Office,” Elizabeth watched his face closely, but couldn’t be sure if he’d understood.
“The War Office, madam?”
“Yes, Martin. They asked that you give them a ring this morning.”
“Very well, madam.”
Elizabeth waited, while Violet turned to face them, sticky porridge clinging to the wooden spoon in her hand.
When it became apparent that Martin had nothing more to say, Elizabeth tried again. “Martin, why would the War Office want you to ring them?”
“Why don’t you ask them, madam?”
“I’m asking you, Martin.” She wasn’t in the least comfortable with the situation. On the one hand, it was really none of her business. On the other hand, since she was responsible for Martin’s welfare, she had to make it her business. If Martin was in trouble, he would need her help.
Martin stared at his empty plate for a long time, then said in a matter-of-fact voice, “I rather imagine it’s a military secret and therefore I’m unable to discuss it.”
“Is it also a military secret that a very posh motorcar brought you home late last night?” Violet demanded.
Elizabeth looked at her in surprise. “You didn’t tell me that last night.”
“I forgot about it, didn’t I.” Violet looked at Martin. “Well? What about this motorcar then? What was that all about?”
Martin gave her a blank look. “Motorcar?”
“Sadie saw you, so don’t pretend with me.” Violet crossed her thin arms over her chest. “You’d better tell us what this is all about, Martin Chezzlewit, before they throw you in prison.”
“Really, Martin,” Elizabeth added. “You have both of us quite worried. I do think you should tell us what this is all about.”
Martin started fidgeting with the handle of his teacup. “All I’m at liberty to say, madam, is that I have been helping the War Office in a delicate matter.”
Elizabeth stared at him in astonishment, until the long silence was broken by a guffaw of laughter from Violet.
“Hark at him,” she spluttered. “He thinks he’s a blinking secret service agent.”
Only Elizabeth glimpsed the gleam in Martin’s eyes, then it was gone. “You might say that,” he murmured.
Giving up, Elizabeth rose. “Well, I’d better be off.”
Martin struggled to get to his feet again, but Elizabeth was already at the door.
“I don’t know what time I’ll be back from the hospital,” she said, “so don’t expect me for meals. I’ll try to ring you later to let you know what I’m doing.”
“That would be nice,” Violet said dryly.
Elizabeth let the door close behind her, still wondering what was behind the mystery with Martin. It was obvious something was going on, but she knew her butler well enough to know that if he didn’t want to tell her anything there was nothing she could do to persuade him. Eventually it would all come out, no doubt, when he was ready for her to know. Since no harm had befallen him thus far, she just had to trust that happy state of affairs would continue.
Once outside the house, however, her thoughts turned to the matter at hand. She had no idea where Clyde Morgan kept his horse and cart, but she had to assume it was somewhere close by.
The obvious place would be one of the farms, where they often rented out a stable. There were three close enough to be convenient for Clyde Morgan, and she rode down to the one nearest his house. Her search proved fruitless. None of the farmers she visited admitted to stabling Clyde Morgan’s horse and cart.
The morning was almost over as she made her way back to town. Rather than go back to the manor, she stopped in at Bessie’s bake shop with the intention of snatching a quick bite before going on to North Horsham.
Bessie was delighted to see her, and insisted on joining her at her table for a few minutes, despite the crowded tearoom which kept her waitresses hopping.
“You’ll never guess what Rita Crumm’s lot have been up to now,” she said as Elizabeth bit into a piece of tasty Cornish pasty. “They had George call the American base and tell them there were an army of Germans hiding in the old windmill. The Yanks went charging out there and all it were was a bunch of schoolboys playing tricks.” Bessie’s hearty laughter turned heads in the quiet room. “Talk about looking daft. I bet they don’t show their faces in town for a while.”
“Ah, so that’s why the Americans were out there.” Elizabeth dabbed her mouth with her serviette. “I wondered what they were doing at the windmill.”
“Oh, so you heard about it, then?”
Bessie looked disappointed, until Elizabeth explained the whole story, then she chuckled.
“I tell you, never a dull moment in Sitting Marsh, that’s for sure.”
Elizabeth picked up her knife and fork again. “We certainly have our share of unusual situations. Speaking of which, I don’t suppose you know where the rag and bone man kept his horse and cart, by any chance?”
Bessie grinned. “I always say, your ladyship, that if you want to know something, you come to Bessie’s tea shop. Hear everything, we do here, and if one of us don’t know, t’other does.”
“Then you do know where he kept them?”
Bessie put her finger alongside her nose. “Well, I did hear as how he kept them in a shed in the field behind his house. Along with all the castoffs he collected. I’d like to take a look in there meself. I reckon that shed is full of good rubbish.”
“I’m sure it is,” Elizabeth murmured, remembering the crowded walls in Iris’s house. She glanced at the clock over the huge brick fireplace. “I’ll take the bill now, Bessie. I’m in rather a hurry.”
“Right you are, your ladyship.” Bessie heaved her plump body out of the chair. “Be right back with it, I will.”
Elizabeth swallowed the rest of her pasty, took a few sips of her tea, then gathered up her handbag. She would just have time to stop by the Morgans’ house before setting off for North Horsham and the hospital.
A few minutes later she arrived at the end of the lane and parked her motorcycle out of sight from the house. An alleyway ran down between the houses, leading onto the fields behind them. Hurrying as fast as she could, Elizabeth headed down the path.
She spotted the shed as soon as she emerged from the alleyway, and after a furtive glance around to make sure no one was in the back gardens, she crossed the field to the ramshackle building.
As she opened the door it creaked loudly, and a soft whinny answered her. The horse stood in the corner, its head lifted in expectation, its ears flattened against its head. It looked dejected and underfed. Elizabeth made a mental note to send a member of the S.P.C.A. around to take a look at it later.
She spoke to it softly as she squeezed past piles of boxes to where the cart stood. A pale shaft of light struggled to penetrate the grimy window, but it was enough to see inside the cart. It didn’t take much scrutiny to find what she was looking for. A large dark stain on the floor of the cart told the story.
It was as she suspected. Afraid that her husband would harm her children, Iris Morgan had shot him and carried his body in the cart to the damaged munitions factory, knowing it was to be bulldozed down the next morning. No doubt she hoped the body would never be found, but just in case, she had put the gun in her dead husband’s hand to make it look like suicide.
Elizabeth turned back to the door. She knew now what she had to do. She could not, in all good conscience, allow this crime to go unpunished. Not even for the sake of the children. Clyde Morgan might well have been a
