Glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, she noticed with some surprise that it was long past the time when Violet usually rang the bell for supper. Violet was never late with the meals. Unless she was ill.
Concerned, Elizabeth rose to her feet and hurried to the kitchen. Her anxiety deepened when she opened the door and no smell of cooking greeted her. In fact, the kitchen was as neat and clean as Violet usually left it last thing at night.
Frowning, Elizabeth headed for the pantry, expecting to find her housekeeper rummaging about in there. Instead, she found Martin, in the act of helping himself to a large chunk of cheese.
He swung around as she entered and, upon seeing her, jumped so violently he almost dropped the plate he held. By some miracle he righted it before the cheese slid off and peered at her over the rims of his glasses.
“You startled me, madam. I thought it was Violet, coming back to spy on me.”
“Now why would she do that?” Elizabeth noticed the jar of pickled onions he’d taken down from the shelf. “Where is Violet, anyway? Why isn’t she cooking supper?”
“Why, indeed,” Martin said mournfully. “I asked her that very question myself.”
Elizabeth waited, until it became obvious Martin wasn’t going to continue and she was forced to ask, “So what did she say when you asked her?”
Martin placed the butcher knife he’d used on the cheese back in it’s slot on the wall. “When I asked her what, madam?”
Elizabeth reminded herself that Martin was very old, somewhat senile, and one had to use infinite patience when dealing with him. “What did Violet say when you asked her why she isn’t cooking supper?”
Martin thought about it. “Oh, yes. Now I remember. She said we were to eat the leftover stew.” He pointed to a large pot on the shelf. “I looked at it, but it’s cold. I decided I would prefer my ration of cheese and pickled onions. With buttered bread, of course.”
“We don’t have butter,” Elizabeth reminded him. “Only margarine.”
“Then I shall endeavor to do without. That dratted stuff tastes like axle grease.”
Elizabeth was inclined to agree with him. “Is Violet ill? Did she say she was going to bed?”
“No, madam.” Martin picked up the jar of pickled onions and tucked it under his arm. “She said she was going out. She asked me to serve the stew to the Winterhalters, which I did.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. In all the years she had known Violet, and that had been all her life, she had never known the housekeeper to go out on a Sunday night. Especially when they had guests in the house. In fact, Violet rarely went out at night at all, unless it was a special event, such as the wedding. “Did she say where she was going? Is she walking?”
“No, madam. She went off in one of those infernal contraptions that make all that blasted noise and belch evil-smelling smoke everywhere, poisoning the very air we breathe.”
“Do you mean a Jeep?” For the life of her, Elizabeth couldn’t imagine Violet riding in a Jeep.
“No, madam. I mean a motor car.”
Thoroughly mystified now, Elizabeth followed Martin out into the kitchen. “Who was driving it?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that, madam. I couldn’t see his face.” Martin placed his cheese and pickled onions on the table, then opened the bread bin and took out a small loaf of bread. “Would you care to join me, madam?”
Elizabeth eyed the bread and cheese. “I don’t think so, Martin. But please, don’t let my presence prevent you from enjoying your supper.”
“Very well, madam. But since you won’t be joining me, if I may, I should like to enjoy it in my own room.”
“Of course you may, Martin.”
“Thank you, madam.”
She watched him shuffle out the door, not without some difficulty since he was carrying the bread under one arm, the pickled onions under the other, and the plate of cheese balanced in between. She knew better than to offer her help, however. Martin became rather testy if there was the slightest hint he could not manage his own affairs.
She watched the door close behind him, her thoughts going back to Violet. She had not the slightest idea where her housekeeper might have gone. She could only hope that Violet was not in some kind of trouble. If so, there was nothing Elizabeth could do about it but wait for her housekeeper to return.
CHAPTER 7
“Come on, ladies. Get a bloody move on!” Rita stood in the middle of the coast road and waved her arms at the straggly bunch of women trudging far behind her. “It’ll be dark soon and we have to be positioned on the cliffs by then.”
“I know where I’d like to bloomin’ position her,” Marge muttered.
Tramping alongside her, Nellie giggled. “Leave her alone. She’s in her glory when she can boss us around like this.”
Marge grunted. “It’s all a waste of time, if you ask me. We’ve been waiting five years for the Germans to invade. They’re not going to come now, are they. We’re winning the war. Mr. Churchill said so, and he should know.”
“We haven’t won it yet,” Nellie said, puffing a little with the exertion of marching uphill. “We’ve got to invade the Nazis now and turn the tables on them.”
“Well, they’ve been talking about that for weeks, too. Makes you wonder if this war is ever going to end.”
“Shut up talking down there!” Rita yelled, still prancing about in the middle of the road. “You want the enemy to hear you? This is supposed to be a secret mission!”
Nellie giggled again. “What makes her think they wouldn’t hear her? Not much secret about that yell, is there.”
“I’d like to see what she’d do if the Germans did invade,” Marge mumbled. “One glimpse of a U-boat and she’d wet her knickers. She’d be off faster than a scalded cat, leaving us all to face the buggers by ourselves.”
“Well, I don’t think we have to worry about it. Like you said, the Nazis are not coming anywhere near this beach. Even if they did, they wouldn’t get past the mines without everyone knowing about it.”
“Try telling her that.” Marge nodded at Rita, who was now marching toward them.
A faint buzz in the distance heralded a vehicle coming along the coast road at a fast pace. Rita seemed to pay no attention to it, her focus squarely on the unruly members of the Housewives League. If there was one thing Rita couldn’t stand, it was being ignored.
Marge braced herself for one of Rita’s explosive tirades, which more often than not were directed at her. She couldn’t help it if she liked to talk. It wasn’t her fault if someone talked back with her. Yet she always got the blame for what Rita liked to call a “disruption.”
The roar of the engine grew louder, and Marge could tell it was a Jeep. Rita must have heard it, too. Although her back was toward the oncoming vehicle, she’d moved over to the right side of the road.
Knowing the Yanks’ tendency to drive on the wrong side of the road, the group of women made sure to stand well clear of the grass verge, crowding up to the railings that lined the cliffs. They all watched with gleeful expectation as Rita stood in the road, her hands dug into her hips, and cast a baleful eye on her wayward members.
“How many times do I have to tell you,” she began, “that when we’re on a mission…”
The Jeep roared into view, plunged past Rita with room to spare and continued on its way, rocketing from side to side as it careened around the bend.
“Lucky they weren’t driving on the wrong side,” Marge commented. “You’d be flat as a pancake by now.”
She nudged Nellie in the side as Rita glared at her, but Nellie was staring after the Jeep, her face creased in a frown. “They weren’t Yanks,” she said. “What were civvies doing in an American Jeep?”