"Too bad it didn't," Nellie said nastily.

"'Ere, watch it. Or I'll come up there and show you what for."

"You and whose bleeding army?"

"Just me, that's who."

"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 a.s.sured 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 d.i.c.kie 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, circ.u.mstances 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 hoa.r.s.e. 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 was 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 d.i.c.kie 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, d.i.c.kie was in his studios when she called on him. His a.s.sistant, 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 d.i.c.kie came bustling in, wearing a gaudy orange silk s.h.i.+rt 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," d.i.c.kie 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 Sat.u.r.day, Brian Sutcliffe was found dead in the cellar of the Sitting Marsh village hall."

d.i.c.kie'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.

d.i.c.kie 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?"

d.i.c.kie made a pretense of brus.h.i.+ng 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."

d.i.c.kie'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 a.s.sure 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.

d.i.c.kie 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."