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Nellie looked really worried now, and Marge felt sorry for her. “Maybe I should go with her,” she said, wondering what on earth had made her say that.

“No, it’s better if she goes alone. That way they won’t feel threatened.”

“Maybe they won’t, but I flipping will.” Nellie looked around the group. “You’ll all come running if I yell for help, won’t you?”

Everyone nodded, though no one looked as if they really meant it.

With a sick feeling in her stomach, Marge watched Nellie walk slowly up the road. They were sending her into danger, all alone, straight into the arms of the most wanted criminals in the country. What on earth were they thinking?

Faced with the prospect of eating leftover stew, Elizabeth decided instead to take a ride down to the Tudor Arms and buy two of Alfie’s delicious Cornish pasties. Just the thought of them made her feel hungry, and she wasted no time in getting her motorcycle out from the stables.

It was still early enough that the pub wouldn’t be too crowded, and with any luck she could slip in and out without attracting too much attention. It would do her good to get out of the house, she told herself as she swept down the hill. Too much time spent alone allowed her to dwell on Earl and what horrors he might be facing.

News of the bombing raids on Germany were prevalent on the wireless these days. One could hardly turn it on without hearing about the planes lost and the courageous men who didn’t return. She seldom listened to the news now, and only turned on the wireless when one of her favorite programs was on.

One could hardly dig one’s head into the sand, however. What with the wireless reports, the newspaper, and talk on everyone’s lips, it was difficult to escape the rumors about an imminent invasion of Europe by the Allies. Just the mere mention of it was enough to turn her stomach and fill her heart with fear.

Turning into the parking lot, she was thankful to see no Jeeps parked there. A couple of bicycles leaned against the fence, but other than that it seemed the evening’s festivities were yet to begin. Of course, with Priscilla on her honeymoon, the Sunday talent concert would not be held. Then again, most of the locals walked to the pub and could already be inside enjoying their evening pint.

Although aware that the rules of etiquette had been relaxed considerably since the outbreak of the war, Elizabeth still felt uncomfortable entering the pub unescorted. Still, the thought of those Cornish pasties called to her, and she couldn’t ignore the hunger pangs. She headed for the door, her mouth watering.

The familiar smell of beer, tobacco, and the musty odor of the heavy oak beams was as potent as ever. The level of chatter lowered considerably as she made her way to the bar. Several tables were occupied in the saloon bar, and recognizing the locals, she acknowledged them all with a gracious wave of her hand.

The gentlemen rose, until she waved them back into their seats. “I shan’t be long,” she told them. “Please sit down and enjoy your evening.”

Alfie, the ruddy-faced jovial barman, greeted her with a smile. “Come for your usual drop of sherry, your ladyship? Sit right down and I’ll pour you one.”

“Actually I came for Cornish pasties.” Elizabeth glanced hungrily at the display case on the counter. “I won’t be stopping for a drink tonight.”

“Got a nice bottle of cream sherry just come in.” Alfie reached under the counter, brought out a bottle, and waved it at her. “Shame to waste it on those what don’t appreciate a good sherry when they see one.”

Elizabeth hesitated. The house was awfully lonely without Violet there. Thinking about her missing housekeeper got her worried again. She climbed up on a stool and said demurely, “Just one, then, Alfie. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, m’m.” Alfie poured the brown liquid into a glass and pushed it toward her.

She could smell the sweet, tangy aroma of it even before she lifted the glass to her lips. The first sip burned her throat, as it always did, and she put down the drink. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Violet in the last hour or two?”

Alfie seemed surprised. “Violet? In here? I don’t think she’s ever set foot in this pub. Not as long as I’ve been here, anyhow.”

“Well, she doesn’t usually go off somewhere without telling me, either.” Elizabeth glanced around the room in the faint hope of seeing her housekeeper’s bony features.

“Maybe she took a walk. It’s a nice night.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Martin said she went off in a motorcar. I wasn’t aware that Violet knew anyone who had a motorcar.”

Alfie looked sympathetic. “I know you must be worried about her. Finding that Sutcliffe chap dead at the wedding yesterday puts everyone on edge. Nasty business, that.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Can’t say I’m all that surprised, though. Smarmy blighter he was, though one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

“Oh, that’s right. He had a room here, didn’t he.” Forgetting Violet for the moment, Elizabeth seized the opportunity to pursue her investigation. “I take it you didn’t care for the gentleman.”

Alfie snorted. “That weren’t no gentleman. Trouble-maker, that’s what he was. Almost came to a punch-up the other night. I had to step in and calm things down.”

“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.”