The ninth book in the Manor House series, 2006

Martin Chezzlewit was eighty-five years old and not in the best of health. At times his mind was clear as a bell, but there were times when he made no sense at all. He’d been a butler at the Manor House for more than sixty years, long before the Earl of Wellsborough’s daughter, Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton, was born.

Martin took his job quite seriously, but these days, what with the constant climbing of stairs, and the ever-present hazards of wartime England, his duties often became too much for him, and he would wander off to his room for a lengthy nap.

Therefore, when he failed to turn up at the appointed time for the midday meal that fateful day, at first no one was particularly concerned.

Violet, busy at the stove as usual, did her best to mangle whatever provisions could be scrounged from the measly offerings of rationed food. Cooking in wartime England was a challenge for the best of cooks. Violet was not the best of cooks.

Elizabeth sat at the large kitchen table that had been scrubbed smooth by generations of housemaids, and anxiously scanned the newspaper for the latest accounts of the Allied invasion, which had occurred three days earlier. She had a personal interest in the events of the past three days. American flying officers billeted in her mansion had been involved in the battle.

Major Earl Monroe and his men had been absent from the Manor House for more than two weeks. Elizabeth was concerned for all the men, of course. Her concern for the handsome major, however, bordered on terror. News of the dangers faced by the pilots and their crews was sparse, but one didn’t need an overactive imagination to understand the consequences of flying over occupied France and Germany.