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It was like the Blitz all over again. Elsie Shenton tended the teapots in the village hall and watched the villagers straggling in.
She poured tea for Mrs. Rollins, and a glass of milk for the little boy. “When I heard that siren,” she said, “I tell you, I almost took a turn.”
Mrs. Rollins nodded her head. “They shouldn’t have done that, but I suppose it was the only way to get our attention.”
Elsie sniffed and looked at Mildred Chapman, skulking in a dark corner with her poor deranged son. “The police brought her in. I don’t know why. She don’t live anywhere near the cliff. Don’t care how big the mine is, it’s not going to blow up her house.”
Mrs. Rollins leaned across the row of teacups and whispered conspiratorially. “Fancy the people from the Hall coming in here. You’d think they’d have somewhere more posh to go.”
Elsie nodded her head. “It’s the police. I don’t know what’s going on, but I can tell you that they’re only here because the police brought them in, and very upset they are too. They didn’t want no tea. That Pearson woman said they had brandy, for the shock.”
“They’re going to need it,” said Mrs. Rollins, “when that big old pile of bricks blows up.”
Teddy pulled on his mother’s hand. “What pile of bricks?”
“Ooh,” said Elsie, “little jugs have big ears, don’t they?”
“What pile of bricks?” Teddy repeated.
“Southwold Hall,” said Elsie with relish. She looked down at the boy. His rabbity face was alight with interest. “Things might be changing around here.” She looked back at Mrs. Rollins. “I never had nothing against His Lordship, but I don’t like that Pearson woman, not one little bit. And as for that nephew of hers ...”
Mrs. Rollins let her gaze rest on the party from Southwold Hall. They had commandeered the best chairs and set them beside the radiator that was struggling to heat the drafty old village hall.
“I don’t like the look of that boy,” Mrs. Rollins said. “I know he’s Mrs. Pearson’s nephew, but I don’t think he’s right in the head. He shouldn’t be here.”
Elsie examined the young man in question, taking in his vacant expression, heavy brows, and broad shoulders. “Nasty piece of work,” she said.
“And who is the old man?” Mrs. Rollins asked.
Elsie was happy to turn her attention away from Robbie Pearson’s glowering face, and look at the blanket-wrapped lawyer. “Well, that’s Mr. Champion, the family solicitor from Brighton.”
“He’s not the lawyer I met,” Mrs. Rollins argued. “I met a young man, very nice, very polite, and quite good-looking. He was asking questions around the village about Vera Chapman.”
“Yes, yes,” said Elsie impatiently, “I know about him, but he’s not here. The posh-looking old man is the Earl’s old lawyer, and the woman with the gray hair is his secretary. Nice woman, came and got herself a cup of tea and thanked me very politely.”
“I don’t know why anyone would be interested in Vera Chapman, not after all this time,” Mrs. Rollins remarked.
Elsie would have been happy to give her opinion of Vera Chapman, but her attention was suddenly taken by Mrs. Evans. Really, it was like being in the bomb shelter again.
“She’s brought that cat of hers,” Elsie said. “You’d think it would be dead by now. Well, she can’t bring it in here.”
She set down the teapot and prepared to deal with Annie Evans and her aged cat. Before she could speak, the door opened admitting a blast of cold air, a one-armed man in a brown raincoat, and Sam Ruddle.
“Well, look at that,” Elsie said. “Sam Ruddle up and about, and us thinking he was going to die.”
She tried to catch Sam’s eye. He looked like he could use a nice strong cup of tea, and the man in the raincoat didn’t look much better.
The two men ignored her as they approached the huddled group around the radiator. The policeman who had been standing guard saluted the man in the raincoat. So he was an officer in plain clothes. A detective! The officer did not return the salute. Of course not, Elsie thought, how could he when he didn’t have a right arm?
Something was happening. Chairs were being pushed back. Faces were flushed. The one-armed man seemed to be taking charge.
Elsie poured a cup of tea and, careless of rationing, stirred in three teaspoons of sugar.
“I’m just going to take this to Sam,” she said.
She stepped out from behind the counter and came face to face with Mrs. Evans. The cat offered her a toothless grin.
Mrs. Evans preempted Elsie’s complaint. “Vera Chapman,” she said.
“What about her?”
“She’s been seen.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s here in the village. Jim Price chauffeured her here from London Airport. She came from America in a plane.”
The teacup wobbled in Elsie’s hand. “I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you like,” Mrs. Evans said, “but it’s the truth. Jim was very put out, I can tell you. Said she behaved like a real little madam, making him carry her luggage and parading around in American clothes.”
“So where is she now?” Elsie asked.
“He said he took her to the Hall; her and Carol Elliot. He was supposed to take Vera to the station, but no one can find her.”
Elsie looked at the huddled figures of Millie and Terry Chapman.
“Does Millie Chapman know that Vera’s here?”
Mrs. Evans sniffed. “Not according to Jim. He said that Vera didn’t want to go anywhere near her mother’s house. All she wanted was to go to the Hall.”
“She always was selfish.”
“She saved us from the bomb,” Mrs. Evans said.
“Saved herself more like.”
Mrs. Evans nodded her head in agreement.
“Now,” said Elsie, “about that cat—”
Mrs. Evans deflected the comment with another titbit of information. “That nice young lawyer has disappeared. His car is still at the Hall but he’s nowhere to be found.”
Elsie considered the possibility that Mrs. Evans was concocting her stories out of thin air.
“Who told you that?”
“Jim Price. He was there all the time, and he drove them over here when the police came to tell them to leave.”
Mrs. Evans leaned forward. “If that young lawyer’s still somewhere at the Hall, and that mine is coming with the tide, well ...”
Elsie hesitated. It was really beneath her dignity to ask, but it seemed that Mrs. Evans had tapped into a rich vein of information from the usually taciturn chauffeur. She fixed her eyes on the cat and waited for the information to come to her.
Mrs. Evans adjusted her grip on the cat. “There’s a little girl and two Americans.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Jim picked them up in Southampton and brought them to the Hall.”
Elsie looked at the group of people that Jim Price had brought over from the Hall. Lady Sylvia was still sitting in dignified silence, with Mrs. Pearson standing behind her. The old lawyer was on his feet, supported by his secretary. A large red-faced man stood face to face with the detective, while a pale woman with blond hair that had surely come from a bottle wept softly and held the man’s arm.
“Where’s the little girl?” Elsie asked.
Mrs. Evans made her way past Elsie and stood expectantly at the counter. “That’s what they all want to know,” she said. “Now, are you going to pour me some tea, or do I have to do it myself?’