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.
“Florrie? Florrie!” Cursing under her breath, Marge climbed back up the bank she’d just slid down. Stupid woman. Now she’d have to go back and get her.
It was even harder going back than it had been coming. She had to hunt for the signs of her tracks to make sure she was going in the right direction. All the time she called out Florrie’s name, until her voice was hoarse. Squirrels chattered at her, sparrows fluttered out of branches, and crows screeched at her, but no sound of a human voice answered her cries.
It didn’t seem possible that the woods were full of people searching for Nellie, and not one of them could hear her. To make matters worse, a faint rumbling of thunder in the distance warned of a storm approaching.
Marge was almost in tears by the time she reached the trail again. Still no sign of Florrie. Stumbling and running, Marge hurried along the trail in the hopes that the silly woman had continued along it. At the pace Florrie was walking, Marge should easily catch up with her. The trail ended, however, without Marge ever seeing another living soul. Thoroughly fed up, she reached the lane and set off for the village.
Either Florrie had gone back the way they’d come, or something bad had happened to her. Now Marge no longer thought Nellie was having a good time with the musketeers. In fact, she was beginning to really worry about her. She wa
s also worried as to how she would explain to Rita that she’d lost Florrie somewhere in the woods.
Elizabeth arrived in North Horsham just before noon. She hadn’t rung Dickie Muggins to let him know she was coming. She’d learned that when people are taken by surprise, they reveal much more if they haven’t had time to prepare their answers.
To her relief, Dickie was in his studios when she called on him. His assistant, a freckled-faced redheaded woman with the unlikely name of Frenchie, ushered her into a waiting room and handed her a tattered copy of a film magazine.
Elizabeth, preferring live theater to the cinema, thumbed through it without paying much attention. She was relieved when Dickie came bustling in, wearing a gaudy orange silk shirt with baggy brown trousers. His black scarf floated behind him as he surged forward, his hand extended as if he meant to shake hers.
Holding firmly onto the magazine, Elizabeth rose smoothly to her feet. Now that she knew the truth about the photographer, she found it rather difficult to meet his gaze. “It was kind of you to see me on such short notice, Mr. Muggins,” she murmured, as he led her into a tiny office.
The walls were covered with photographs, some in color, most in black-and-white. Weddings, birthday parties, horse races, boating regattas, there seemed no end to the functions this weird little man had attended as official photographer.
“I’m so glad you paid me a visit today,” Dickie said, ushering her onto a chair. “I have the proofs of the wedding. I was going to take them into Sitting Marsh, but as long as you’re here, would you mind taking them with you? It would save me a trip.”
“I’ll be happy to take them.” Elizabeth waited until he’d handed her the package before saying, “I don’t know if you’ve heard the sad news, but shortly after you left the wedding on Saturday, Brian Sutcliffe was found dead in the cellar of the Sitting Marsh village hall.”
Dickie’s hand fluttered in front of his face as he uttered a shocked, “Oh, my goodness! Oh, how perfectly dreadful. The poor, poor man. Whatever happened?”
“He was stabbed through the heart,” Elizabeth said bluntly.
Dickie staggered, felt for a chair, and sat down on it. “Are you telling me someone murdered him? But that’s simply ghastly. Oh, dear, oh, dear! Whatever next?”
Elizabeth was far too astute to be swayed by this show of false emotion. “I understand you and Mr. Sutcliffe had a difference of opinion at the Tudor Arms last Friday night.”
The photographer’s eyes narrowed, and his voice sounded deeper when he answered. “Who told you that, may I ask?”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
Dickie made a pretense of brushing something from his sleeve. “We had an altercation, yes. Nothing major. It was all resolved rather quickly.”
“I was told you gave Mr. Sutcliffe a warning. I also heard that you were arguing with him in the kitchen shortly before his death.”
Dickie’s mouth hardened. “If you’re suggesting that I killed the man, you couldn’t be more wrong. I am well used to intolerant, misinformed people like Brian Sutcliffe. His attacks were nothing new to me. I assure you, if I went around killing everyone who insulted me I’d have an army of deaths on my hands. I am many things, Lady Elizabeth. I’d be the first to tell you that my lifestyle may be controversial, but a murderer? No, indeed not.”
“Not even if your lifestyle is threatened?” Elizabeth asked quietly.
Dickie Muggins looked her straight in the eye. “Not even then.”
For some reason, she believed him. Picking up her handbag, she said briskly, “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Muggins.”
She was about to depart when he spoke again. “I’m not the only one who argued with Sutcliffe, you know. If I were you, I’d have a chat with that bridesmaid. The tall one. I had the room next to Sutcliffe, and I heard her cursing him on the landing. Not nice language for a lady to use at all.”
Elizabeth paused. “You mean Fiona Farnsworth?”
“I believe that’s her name, yes.”
“Thank you, Mr. Muggins. I appreciate your time.” She left, frowning. Of course, Fiona had gone to Brian Sutcliffe’s room. She had forgotten about that. Goodness, she was letting her worries about Earl and Nellie cloud her brain. It wasn’t like her at all to forget something so important during an investigation. Though what Fiona might have to do with Brian Sutcliffe’s death was hard to imagine.
“You did what?” Rita’s yell was even more terrible than Marge had expected. “How could you possibly lose Florrie? She’s not a dog, you know. She didn’t just run off.”
Marge explained as best she could, while the women who had made it back to the tea shop sat looking at her as if she’d deliberately got Florrie lost. “I went all the way back,” she said, looking longingly at the plate of Chelsea buns on Rita’s table. “I even went down the trail after her. She just disappeared.”
“The musketeers got her,” Joan Plumstone muttered.
A chorus of shocked cries turned the heads of nearby customers.
“Shh!” Rita warned. “We don’t want to start a panic, for heaven’s sake. Florrie just got lost, that’s all. Let’s wait until the others get back. Maybe she ran into someone out there and is coming back with them. Meanwhile, we have to decide what to do about Nellie if we don’t find her today.”
“What are the bobbies doing about it?” someone asked.
“God knows.” Rita picked up her cup and sipped her tea. “Knowing Sid and George, they’re too wrapped up with that murder at the wedding to have time to look for our Nellie.”
“What about Lady Elizabeth? Can’t she do something about Nellie?”
Rita sniffed. “Apparently her ladyship has better things to do than search for a missing tenant.”
“That’s not fair,” Marge said hotly. “You know she cares about Nellie as much we do. She’s most likely trying to find out who killed Brian Sutcliffe. I’d say that’s just as important. After all, that poor man is dead.”
“How do we know Nellie isn’t, too?” Joan said.
Marge felt a stab of fear. “Don’t even think that.”
“Well,” Rita said, “don’t worry about Lady Elizabeth. Whatever she can do I can do, and a lot more efficiently at that. If she spent more time worrying about her responsibilities instead of running around after that precious major of hers she’d get a lot more done.”
Aware that someone had come up behind Rita, Marge looked at the newcomer. Her eyes widened, and she nudged Rita hard in the shoulder.
Rita shook her off with a testy, “Oh, shut up, Marge. You know I’m right. Her ladyship throws her weight around a lot, but it’s yours truly who does all the organizing and getting the job done. We wouldn’t have a war effort at all in Sitting Marsh if it weren’t for me.”
Marge’s mouth trembled as she smiled at the woman standing behind Rita’s chair. “Good afternoon, your ladyship,” she said loudly. “How nice to see you.”
As Nellie might have expected, Stan wouldn’t let her go, but he had agreed to bring her back food and drink, which was something. She sat waiting impatiently for the three lads to return with the supplies. Stan wouldn’t tell her what they planned to do. All she knew was that it had something to do with the American base and that it had to be done at night. She’d refused to give away any of her secrets until she’d had something to eat and drink.
She’d spent the last hour or so working out what she could tell them that would sound like she was helping them but at the same time would get them caught. The thing she was worried about was that they’d get caught and wouldn’t tell anyone where she was.
It was obvious from the rusty equipment lying around that the barn wasn’t used anymore. So many farm workers had been called up that the farmers were short-handed and had closed off some of their land until the war was over. The Land Army girls did a lot of the work, but there was only so many of them to go around.
Nellie could be dead and gone to heaven by the time someone f
ound her. Maybe if she shouted loud enough, someone working in the fields would hear her.
After several minutes of yelling her head off, her throat was so raw she could hardly swallow. If she didn’t get something to drink soon, she was going to die of thirst. Stan had given her a few sips of sour lemonade that hadn’t helped her thirst at all.
Somehow she had to find a way to get down and escape from this place. Maybe if she could drop off the ledge and roll on the ground without hurting herself…
Nellie was considering the risks when she heard the sound of the Jeep returning. It amazed her that the field workers hadn’t noticed the Jeep coming back and forth to the barn. The building itself hid the noisy vehicle from view as it crossed the field, but surely they must have heard the engine. Then again, everyone was used to hearing Jeeps driving around and took no notice of them anymore. Stan was no fool. He’d picked a good spot for his meeting place.
Her need to satisfy her hunger and thirst chased away all thoughts of trying to escape as she waited for the huge barn doors to open. When at last they did, the sunlight almost blinded her.
Blinking, she couldn’t see who was in the Jeep at first. The doors grated closed again, and for a moment all she could see were bright spots of light in front of her eyes. Then, gradually, her vision cleared. She heard a whimpering and thought at first the boys had brought back a dog with them. Then she saw the figure being roughly hauled out of the Jeep.
She blinked, and blinked again. “Florrie? Is that you?”
The frightened woman peered up at her, crying, “Nellie! Are you all right? What’s going to happen to us?”
“Something nasty if you don’t shut up wailing,” Jimmy said harshly.
Florrie whimpered again.
Jimmy held her hands behind her back, while Robbie dragged the ladder over to the ledge. “Get up there,” Jimmy ordered, giving her a shove. “Maybe your mate can keep you quiet.”
“I still don’t think we should have brought her back here,” Robbie said, as Florrie started crawling up the ladder. “Stan ain’t going to like it one bit.”
Wedding Rows Page 12
