“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
“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.”
