“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 ladyship.”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Murphy, isn’t it? You own a fishing boat, I believe.”
The young man nodded. “Yes, m’m. The Murphys have been fishing 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 ladyship. 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.”
“Dickie, 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. “Dickie 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, Dickie 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 think-”
Alfie ignored him. “You know. A fruit.”
Elizabeth stared at him blankly.
Alfie flapped his fingers at her. “A queer, your ladyship.”
“Alfie, I really don’t think-” 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 Dickie would look lovely in a wedding dress, and… well, things like that. Dickie 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. Dickie 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 grass verge to shield 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 shiver 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, poop,” 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 pass 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 grass 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 Buttons 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!”
