a siding for hours while a succession of troop trains passed.
It could, however, be stopped at railway crossings while those same troop trains crawled by. And at roadblocks, where overzealous Home Guard officers insisted on checking everyone’s papers. She needn’t have worried about spending the night in the station. It was nearly seven in the morning before they reached Hereford.
The bus for Backbury was stopped by a troop train only once and for only half an hour. When the driver called out “Backbury,” it was just a bit after eight. “What time’s the next bus from here back to Hereford?” Polly asked as she got off.
“Twenty past five.”
“In the afternoon?”
“Only two buses a day on Sunday. The war, you know.”
Yes, I do know. But at least there was a train from Backbury. She was glad she’d checked the ABC and found out when it went. Taking the 11:19 would get her back to London far faster than the bus. If she could get to the manor and back in three hours.
And if she could find it. The driver had stopped among a small huddle of shops and cottages. She couldn’t see a manor house. Or a railway station. She turned back to ask the bus driver, “Can you direct me to the manor?” but he’d already shut the door and was pulling away.
I’ll have to ask one of the villagers, she thought, but there was no one in sight. They might be in church. It was Sunday, and even if Backbury didn’t have an early mass, the local equivalent of Mrs. Wyvern might be there arranging the altar flowers. But when she pushed open the door and looked in the sanctuary, she couldn’t see anyone. “Hullo?” she called. “Anyone there?”
The only response was a distant whistle. So I know which direction the railway station is, she thought, going back outside and following the sound and the plume of smoke. She arrived at the station platform in time to see a troop train race by at top speed.
Why couldn’t they have moved that quickly last night? she thought, walking over to the station, though it could hardly be called that. It was no larger than a potting shed. There was probably no point in knocking, but when she did, there was the sound of a cough and then a shuffle and an unshaven and obviously hungover—or drunken—man opened the door.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Polly said, taking a step back so he didn’t fall on her. “Can you direct me to the manor?”
“Manor?” he said, weaving and squinting blearily at her. Definitely drunk.
“Yes. Can you tell me how to get there?”
He waved vaguely. “Road just beyond the church.”
“Which way?”
“Only goes one way,” he said and would have shut the door if she hadn’t grabbed it and held it open.
“I’m looking for someone who works at the manor. One of the maids. Her name’s Eileen. She cared for the evacuees at the manor. She has red hair and—”
“Evacuees?” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You ain’t here about those bloody Hodbin brats, are you?”
Hodbin? That was the name of the evacuees who’d given Merope so much trouble.
“You’d better not be bringin’ ’em back.”
“I’m not. Does Eileen still work at the manor?” she asked, but he’d already slammed the door, and it would have been on her hand if she hadn’t snatched it away at the last second. “Can you tell me how far it is?” she called through the door, but got no answer.
It can’t be that far. Merope walked it, Polly thought, going back to the church and then along the road beyond it. It was more a lane than a road—and the sort of lane that looked as if it would peter out in the middle of a field—but there was nothing else resembling either a road or a lane, and it led only south. It was also rutted with tire tracks, and Merope had been going to take driving lessons.
But it sounded from what the station agent had said that the Hodbins were no longer here, and if the evacuees had gone home, Eileen would have, too. From what Eileen had said, though, the Hodbins might have been sent home in disgrace. Or shipped off to a reform school.
The lane led past a hayfield and then into woods. There was a scent of rain in the air. Rain, Polly thought. That’s all I need. Merope had better be here, after all this.
Where was the manor? Polly’d already come at least