Dead Ground in Between by Maureen Jennings

brown-haired, but with the same husky build. At the moment, he looked so woebegone that Tyler almost felt sorry for him.
    “What’d you do to your ankle?” Tyler asked.
    “Twisted it in a rabbit hole.”
    Tyler didn’t miss the flash of anger that his mate sent Oldham’s way.
    “At least, I – I think it was a rabbit hole,” stuttered Oldham.
    “Do what you can, then. Your pal here might have to do the lion’s share of the work. All right with that, Wickers?”
    “Course.”
    “Go on, then. Off with you.”
    “Come on, Tim,” said Wickers. “Let’s get out of here.”
    Tyler let them go a few paces. “Oh, by the way, boys, you were obviously three sheets to the wind on Tuesday. I was wondering how you came to be so inebriated given the shortage of booze these days. It’s almost impossible to even get tipsy with what they are serving at the pubs.”
    Oldham answered. “We was drinking cider. Powerful strong stuff, that is. Called Stun ’Em Dead. You don’t need much of that, I can tell you.” He grinned. “Cheaper that way. Two pints is all we need.”
    “Good to hear that. Because I wouldn’t want to think you’d been trafficking with somebody who’s selling black market liquor. I’d expect you to turn him in, if that was the case. National interest. Selling on the black market is a serious offence, but so is buying.”
    “We know that,” interjected Wickers. “We’re very patriotic, aren’t we, Tim?”
    Oldham nodded vigorously.
    “And where was it you imbibed this Knock ’Em Dead cider?” asked Tyler.
    Oldham hesitated for a moment, but Wickers gave him an almost imperceptible nod. “The Feathers. And the proper name’s
Stun
’Em Dead, not
Knock
’Em Dead.”
    “Right. Same result, presumably. And the publican’s name?”
    “Mr. Harold Johnson.”
    “He’ll vouch for you then, will he? Just two pints of cider?”
    Oldham shifted slightly. Wickers was the one to answer.
    “It was a busy night. He might not remember.”
    “I’ll ask him anyway. These chaps usually know exactly what their customers are up to.”
    Tyler was sure they weren’t telling the whole truth. Didn’t mean Johnson was crooked, but he might have turned a blind eye if the lads had brought in their own illicit booze. Men did it all the time in order to get around the regulations. Beer wasn’t rationed but the supply was limited. Two strapping young men like these would need a lot of cider to get drunk. He didn’t for a minute buy the excuse that they didn’t have heads for liquor. Most farmers made their own strong cider and quaffed it down like water.
    “All right then, boys, you’d better go and tackle your important chores. See you at one o’clock. Sharp.”
    The big clock on the mantelpiece bonged out the half hour as the men made their escape. Crikey. He’d almost forgotten his appointment, in spite of Sergeant Rowell’s helpful reminder. Somewhat against his will, he’d arranged to meet with a Mrs. Hamilton, a purveyor of “sincere introductions for the single.” Rowell had talked him into it only last week. Given the letter he’d received yesterday, he didn’t know if this was perfect timing, or the opposite.
    “Won’t hurt, sir,” Rowell had argued. “You know how difficult it is for men in our line of work to meet suitable prospects. At the very least, it’ll make you get out a bit more.”
    “What if I don’t like these women? Or they don’t like me, for that matter?”
    Rowell had shaken his head. “That’s why Mrs. Hamilton is so good. She knows how to match people up so they’re compatible. Look how well I’ve done with Dorothy. I’d never have met her without Mrs. Hamilton.”
    Two months earlier, Rowell had been introduced to a widow, Dorothy McPhail, through Mrs. Hamilton’s service, and they’d got along like a house on fire. Where formerly all he’d talked about was his deceased wife, now Rowell’s conversations revolved around Dorothy, what she thought, what