Kate Kingsbury - Death Is in the Air

Elsie, Helen, and Janet nodded in enthusiastic agreement.

“Thank you all,” Elizabeth said warmly. “I’m sorry it’s such short notice, but I think the situation warrants a certain amount of haste. I’m hoping we can all set an example for the military and prove that we can all get along quite well together if we put our minds to it.”

“I hope you’re right, m’m,” Bessie murmured, echoing Elizabeth’s lingering doubts. “But we’ll give it a jolly good try, anyway.”

“Yes, well,” Elizabeth rubbed at a nonexistent spot on the counter, “about the funds for all this. I-”

“Don’t you worry about nothing, m’m,” Bessie assured her. “If they all pay a shilling to get in, that should be enough to cover everything, including this afternoon’s tea meeting. There’s always the war effort fund if we’re a bit short. After all, this is a war effort, isn’t it?”

Elizabeth sighed. “Thank you, Bessie. I just hope we’re doing the right thing.”

“Of course we are.” Bessie turned to her helpers. “Well, get on with it. You’d better get cracking if you want to get some sleep tonight.”

The women scurried into the kitchen, and Bessie leaned her plump, dimpled elbows on the counter. “I know it’s none of my business, your ladyship, but I was wondering if they found out who killed that poor land girl yet.”

“Not as far as I know,” Elizabeth admitted.

“Seems like that German killed her, then?”

“I really don’t know what to think,” Elizabeth said carefully. “So far no one seems to know with whom Amelia spent that last evening. He or she might have been able to answer some important questions.”

“Well, maybe I can help you there.” Bessie looked over her shoulder at the door to the kitchen, which was firmly closed. “I wasn’t sure if I should tell you this, but I just found out a little while ago that Elsie’s brother, Tim, is stationed out at the camp in Beerstowe. He saw a young woman creeping out of the sick bay just before midnight the night the land girl was killed. The only patient in there at the time was a friend of Tim’s. His name is Jeff Thomas, and he’d been going out with the girl who was killed. Tim’s pretty sure it was her he saw creeping out of there that night. He didn’t say anything to the police because he didn’t want to get Jeff in trouble. Especially now his girlfriend is dead. But I thought you might want to know.”

“I see,” Elizabeth said slowly. “Thank you, Bessie, for letting me know.”

She left the shop, mulling over this latest piece of information. Amelia apparently did spend the evening with Jeff Thomas after all and had left there alive, presumably to come home alone. Sheila Macclesby heard the girl arguing with someone after she arrived back at the farm. The German pilot? Or Maurice? It certainly seemed that the suspects had been narrowed down to those two, and although Elizabeth hated to admit it, it was beginning to look more and more as though one of them had taken a spade to Amelia’s head.

She went over the possible scenarios in her head as she rode her motorcycle back to the Manor House. The remaining land girls were still a possibility, of course, but only one of them had any real motive, and although Pauline’s attitude wasn’t the most pleasant she’d come across, Elizabeth couldn’t picture her wielding a spade at a young woman’s head. Then again, none of her suspects seemed capable of such a ghastly attack.

There was always the possibility that the German pilot had been discovered lurking in the yard when Amelia arrived home that night. Perhaps he’d panicked, killed the girl to silence her, then taken her body to the woods to secure his hiding place. Had he then exchanged his blood-stained uniform for clothes stolen from the farmhouse and hidden them in the sacks to be burned?

Or had Maurice killed Amelia in a fit of rage? Perhaps Sheila had found his bloodstained clothes and burned them to protect him.

Whatever had really happened, it seemed unlikely anyone would be able to prove anything. Unless she could trace the origin of the buttons she’d found.

She would pay a visit to Rosie Finnegan the very next day, she decided. Rosie owned the clothes shop in the High Street. Maybe she could help find out to what garment those buttons were attached. If they didn’t come from Maurice’s reefer jacket, then perhaps they came from the German pilot’s uniform. It wasn’t much, but right then it was all she had. And something told her she had to get at the truth soon, before an innocent person was convicted of murder.

“Did you hear about the dance on Saturday?” Marlene asked eagerly the minute Polly put her foot inside the door that night.

Still flushed from the kiss Sam gave her before he dropped her off at the house, Polly had to collect her thoughts a bit before she answered. “Dance? What dance?”

Marlene waltzed down the narrow hallway to the kitchen, her red hair swinging above her shoulders. “Her ladyship is putting on a dance at the town hall and guess what!”

Polly followed her, intrigued by her older sister’s excitement. “Clark Gable is coming.”

“Not bloomin’ likely, silly.” Marlene pushed open the kitchen door and disappeared inside.

Polly hung her coat up on the hallstand and rushed into the kitchen behind her. “So tell me what!”

Marlene grabbed her startled mother and swung her around, spraying water from the potato peeler she held in her hand. “Go on, Ma, tell Polly about the dance!”

Edna Barnett sighed. “Rita and the rest of us all had tea with Lady Elizabeth this afternoon, and-”

“What?” Polly gaped at her in astonishment. “What, up at the Manor House? I didn’t see none of you up there.”

“Not at the Manor House,” Edna explained patiently. “At Bessie’s tearoom. Her ladyship paid for everything.”

“Why’d she do that?”

“Because she wanted to ask us if we’d help decorate the town hall tonight. The council is putting on a dance on Saturday night.”

“Ah,” Polly murmured, nodding her head, “so that’s why she had me pull out all that stuff from the storerooms. I thought she was going to spruce up the Manor House a bit.”

Marlene gave her mother a hefty nudge. “Go on, tell her who’s invited.”

“You already told me it weren’t Clark Gable.” Polly flopped down on the nearest chair. “I’m not much interested in anyone else.”

“What about if we told you that the soldiers from Beerstowe have been invited, as well as all the Yanks?”

Polly frowned. “The Yanks won’t come. They came that once to the village hall dance, remember? They stayed long enough to eat up all the sandwiches, then they left and went down the pub. Never danced one dance, they didn’t. Just stood around looking like a bunch of strays caught in a storm.”

Marlene bounced onto the chair next to her. “They didn’t stay because no one can dance to Awful Ernie’s music. But what if they had real American big band music that they could jive to and jitterbug? They’d bloody well come then, wouldn’t they?”

“Watch your language, Marlene,” Edna warned, still busily peeling potatoes.

“Sorry, Ma.” Marlene leaned forward and dug her nail into Polly’s arm. “You could ask your Sam to come. He’d bring his mates, wouldn’t he?”

Polly felt a shiver of excitement. “He might. I could ask him.” Her smile faded. “Too bad about Clay. You could have asked him, too.”

Marlene’s face sobered, too. “I know. Poor bugger. I keep thinking about him, wondering what happened to him.”

“Probably picked up by the Germans now,” Polly said, feeling sorry for her sister.

Marlene nodded. “Well, that’s war, I suppose. At least he won’t have to fly those planes again. Not like Sam. You must feel ill every time he goes up in them.”