Elizabeth ate her porridge as fast as her strict upbringing allowed, then pushed her chair back and stood. “I’m going to run down to the station,” she said to Violet’s back. “Is there anything you need?”

“No, thanks, Lizzie. I’ll be going to the shops myself later. You just try to find that old fool, all right?”

“I’ll certainly give it my best effort.” Elizabeth left the kitchen and hurried up the steps to the front door. Stopping just long enough to grab her coat from the hall stand and the silk scarf to tie around her hair, she let herself out into the cool morning air.

A cloudless blue sky confirmed her estimate of a nice day, and as she wheeled her motorcycle out of the stable she prayed that the rain would stay away until Martin was found. She refused to contemplate the possibility that it might already be too late to save her butler. The Manor House without Martin was simply too bleak to visualize.

On the outskirts of the village, the demolition team had already assembled in front of the burned-out ruins of the munitions factory. The workmen, mostly elderly or physically impaired in some way, stood around drinking hot tea from their thermos flasks and munching on slabs of bread pudding, while grumbling about the long ride from North Horsham.

A stray dog, hungry for food, circled them warily, waiting for a morsel that could be snapped up before it dropped to the ground.

The foreman, a muscular ginger-haired brute, strode around issuing orders to which no one paid attention. Only one man appeared to be working and that was the driver of the crane that carried the wrecking ball.

As the huge machine lumbered across the uneven ground, the men moved out of its way, but otherwise paid little attention to it. Their job would start once the remains of the building fell in a heap of dust and broken bricks. What had once been a promising enterprise, supplying much-needed arms and ammunition to the troops fighting abroad, would be reduced to rubble in a matter of minutes.