“Mrs. Morgan,” she said gently, “we’ve come about your husband.”
The woman stared at her as if she didn’t understand the words, then she mumbled, “He’s not here. I don’t know where he is.”
Feeling dreadfully sorry for the poor woman, Elizabeth put out a hand. “May we come in for a moment?”
Mrs. Morgan shot a hasty look at the room behind her. “The place’s a mess,” she said shortly. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
She’d made it sound like an accusation, and George stepped forward. “Mrs. Morgan-Iris-this is Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton, lady of the manor. It would be… polite to invite her inside.”
Iris’s eyes widened and she stepped back. “Oh, my. I’m so sorry, your ladyship. I didn’t recognize you, I’m sure. You’ll have to forgive the mess-”
“It’s quite all right, Mrs. Morgan.” Elizabeth stepped inside the narrow hallway, while words tumbled from Iris’s mouth.
“I haven’t been well, you see, and Clyde never came home last night, and I was up all night worrying about him. What with the kiddies home from school and everything, I haven’t had time to tidy up, but if you’ll just go in here…” She opened a door that led into a small parlor.
Standing in the doorway, Elizabeth gazed around the room in mute astonishment. Every inch of the walls was covered in an amazing array of knickknacks, from tiny portraits in antique frames and china dogs on decorative shelves to a huge Dig for Victory poster depicting a booted foot driving a garden spade into the soil. An enormous clock sat on the mantelpiece, ticking noisily away, its spidery hands pointing to large Roman numerals.
A cat leapt from the sofa and slunk behind an armchair as Elizabeth ventured farther into the room. The smell of boiled cabbage and stale cigarettes was almost overpowering and she held her breath for a moment as she paused in front of the sofa.
Iris chased the cat out and it jumped up on the chair. She shoved it off again, muttering, “I just washed that, you little bugger.” The cat spat at her and stalked off, tail waving in the air behind it.
“Excuse my manners,” Iris said, beckoning Elizabeth to sit down. “Let me get you a cup of tea.”
“Please, don’t bother yourself,” Elizabeth said hastily.
“I’d like a cup of tea,” George piped up. He sank onto a chair across the room, then, realizing Elizabeth hadn’t yet sat down, sprang back to his feet.
Gingerly Elizabeth lowered herself onto the sofa, wondering how many cat hairs she’d have to get rid of before she could go anywhere near her dogs again.
Iris disappeared, and George, looking more comfortable than he had any right to be, took off his helmet and laid it in his lap. “You’ll tell her, won’t you, m’m?” he whispered.
Elizabeth was tempted to tell him it was his place to break the news, but knowing how clumsy George could be in these circumstances, she nodded her assurance.
While they waited, a child’s voice could be heard in another room somewhere, singing loudly and out of tune. When Iris returned she carried a tray upon which she’d set a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl, and three cups and saucers. There was also a small plate of broken biscuits, which she offered to Elizabeth, saying, “I’m sorry they’re not whole biscuits, your ladyship, but these are the only ones I can get off ration. The kiddies eat the good ones as soon as I bring them home.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, doing her best to control a shudder, “but I’ve just recently eaten breakfast.”
George, it seemed, had no such qualms, and took a handful of the broken pieces, murmuring his thanks.
Elizabeth waited until the tea had been poured and served before saying quietly, “Mrs. Morgan, I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”
Iris paused in the act of putting down the teapot and said carefully, “It’s Clyde, isn’t it. What’s he done now?”
Elizabeth exchanged a quick glance with George. “He hasn’t done anything, Mrs. Morgan. I deeply regret to have to tell you that your husband’s body was found in the rubble of the munitions factory this morning. It appears he shot himself.”
Iris’s cry was pure agony. “Oh, my God, no.”
“I’m so sorry.” Elizabeth rose and put an awkward hand on the stricken woman’s shoulder. “This must be a dreadful shock for you. Is there anyone we can contact to be with you?”
Shaking her head, Iris sank onto the nearest chair and buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook, while Elizabeth stood helplessly watching her, and George munched solemnly on his biscuits.
After a moment or two, Iris lifted her tearstained face. “I knew we would end up losing him one day,” she said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, “but I never thought it would happen like this.”
George cleared his throat and fished a notepad out of his pocket. “Do you have any idea why Clyde would want to do away with himself?”
Iris shook her head. After a long pause, she said quietly, “He’s been down in the dumps for a while ’cause business has been so bad. Nobody wants to get rid of anything these days. Everything’s on ration, you see, and it’s hard to buy new so everyone’s hanging on to what they’ve already got.”
She sniffed and dabbed at her nose again. “I just can’t believe he’s gone. I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. Really I don’t.” She stared anxiously up at Elizabeth. “What’s going to happen to my kiddies? They won’t take them away from me, will they?”
“No one is going to take your children away from you,” Elizabeth said firmly. “I’ll see to that.”
Iris wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Thank you, m’m. I don’t think I could go on if I lost them, too. They’ll miss their father, that I do know.” She nodded at a picture frame that stood on the sideboard.
The unkempt man in the photograph wore a straggly beard and a dark patch over his right eye. One hand was raised in the act of throwing a dart, and his thick brows were drawn together in concentration. He seemed rather formidable, Elizabeth thought, remembering Polly’s comment about his resemblance to a pirate.
Feeling compelled to say something, she murmured, “He seems very… ah… capable. Was that taken at the Tudor Arms? I seem to recognize the bar behind him.”
Iris nodded. “He’s a good darts player, my Clyde.” Her expression changed. “At least, he was.” Her face crumpled, as if she were about to burst into tears again.
“As long as he wasn’t drinking all night, that is,” George said dryly.
Iris’s chin shot up and her eyes filled with resentment as she glared at George. “That were an accident as you well know, George Dalrymple. And don’t you never say otherwise.”
Sensing an impending confrontation, Elizabeth said hurriedly, “Well, I must be off. I have to take George back to the station and then run some errands.” She stared hard at George, who took the hint and stood, brushing crumbs from his trousers.
Jamming his helmet on his head, he said gruffly, “Well, I’m sorry about Clyde, Mrs. Morgan. I’m sure Dr. Sheridan will be in touch with you shortly, and I’ll ask the vicar to drop by to make arrangements for the funeral.”
Iris slowly got to her feet, one hand hanging on to the armchair. She looked frail and helpless, and Elizabeth’s heart went out to her.
“Is there someone who can take care of the children for a few days, just to give you some time to deal with all this?” she asked gently.
Iris shook her head. “No, your ladyship. But my Tommy’s almost grown. Twelve years old, he is now. He’ll help take care of Katie; she’s only seven but she’s no trouble. Thank you very much, m’m, but we’ll manage.”
“Very well.” Elizabeth headed for the door, anxious now to breathe the fresh clean air outside. “But if you should change your mind, please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“You’re very kind,” Iris said, following them to the front door. She opened it for them and stood aside to let them pass. Just then the child’s voice rang out, loud and s
urprisingly harsh. “Shut up, you sniv’ling little bugger, or I’ll shut your mouth with this!”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at Iris, who shrugged her thin shoulders. “That’s my Katie,” she said, shaking her head. “Always bashing that poor teddy bear of hers. It’s a wonder its head doesn’t leave its shoulders, the way she carries on. Don’t know what gets into her sometimes, really I don’t.”
Such language in a young child disturbed Elizabeth. She was even more upset that Iris apparently saw no reason to chastise the little girl for speaking in that dreadful manner. Such poor discipline would undoubtedly result in a problem child. It was none of her business, of course, and this certainly wasn’t the time to bring up the subject. Instead, she merely nodded and followed George out into the welcome sunlight.
A few minutes later she pulled up outside the police station and cut the engine. George climbed grumbling and muttering out of the sidecar, and stretched his back with a loud moan.
Ignoring this rather childish display, Elizabeth demanded, “What about the search party? What’s being done about finding Martin?”
“All taken care of,” George said smugly. “I left a note for Sid. He should have half the village out looking by now. Unless they’ve found him already. If you’ll hang on a minute, m’m, I’ll go and see.”
Seated astride the motorcycle, Elizabeth gripped the handlebars and silently prayed. George’s voice interrupted her and she lifted her head.
“No one’s there, your ladyship. No messages or anything, so I presume they are still out there looking for your butler.”
“Very well. Thank you, George.” She would have to be content with that for now, she thought dismally.
“Well, I’ll be getting back to the desk then,” George said. “I have to make up a report on Clyde Morgan.”
Remembering the tension between Iris and George earlier, Elizabeth’s curiosity got the better of her. “What did Iris mean about something being an accident?”
George frowned and scratched the back of his neck. “She was a bit touchy about that, weren’t she? Can’t say as I blame her. Nasty business that were.”
He turned to leave, and Elizabeth shook her head. “George, I’d like to know what happened.”
He paused, then turned back. “Oh, well, it were like this. A year or two ago Clyde was down the pub, drinking too much, like he always did. Anyway, they had a darts match and they was all betting on him to win it. There was this young girl, Sheila Redding, and she was watching the match. Only sixteen years old, she was. Clyde was fooling around and shot a wild dart. Buried it right in her head, he did.”
Elizabeth uttered a shocked gasp. “Oh, good heavens. What happened to her?”
“Well, they got it out, but it did something to her brain. She’s in a wheelchair, can’t talk, or do much for herself. They put her in one of them homes for people like that. It’s in North Horsham.” George sighed. “Horrible thing to happen to someone that young. They say she’ll never get any better.”
“How awful.” Elizabeth’s heart ached for the girl. “Was Mr. Morgan charged with anything?”
“Not a thing. Iris were right about that. It were ruled an accident, though in my mind, he should have gone to prison for it. If he hadn’t been drunk and fooling around, it would never have happened.” George lifted his hand in a salute. “Thank you for the lift, m’m. Much obliged. Not my favorite way to travel by any means, but it’s a lot faster than me bicycle, I will say that.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I’ll be quite happy to give you a lift anytime, George. You only have to ask.”
He walked away from her, muttering under his breath. She couldn’t swear to it, but it sounded as if he’d said, Not on your bloody life.
The wind had picked up when she rode up the hill, stinging her cheeks and bringing tears to her eyes. Normally she would be ravenously hungry by now, but her worries over Martin’s absence and Earl’s silence robbed her of an appetite.
Wearily she wheeled her motorcycle into the stables and walked around to the front door. She’d tugged on the bell rope several times before she remembered that Martin would not be there to open the door for her. Violet must not be able to hear the bell and Sadie in all likelihood was buried somewhere in the depths of the mansion. That meant she’d have to walk around to the back door of the kitchen.
She turned to go down the steps, then paused as the hollow sound of the bolts being drawn back echoed behind her. Violet must have heard the bell after all.
Waiting impatiently for the door to open, she decided to ring the hospital in North Horsham before going down to the kitchen for the midday meal. Someone might have found Martin and taken him there. Not that she had much hope of that, but it would give her something else to do besides waiting helplessly for news.
The door finally began to move, so slowly Elizabeth stared at it in alarm. Violet would have thrown it open, as would Sadie. Even Polly would not be inching it open in this furtive manner. Unless…
She put out a tentative hand and gently pushed. Feeling some resistance, she pushed harder, until a caustic voice spoke from the other side. “Hold on, hold on! What’s the dashed hurry? I’m going as fast as I can!”
“Martin!” she screeched, and bounded forward without thinking. She heard a thud and a muffled yelp, and winced. Peering around the half-open door, she saw the elderly man leaning against the wall, one hand rubbing his forehead.
“Martin, I’m so terribly sorry. Are you hurt?”
“I’m not exactly basking in pleasure, madam.” Very slowly he pushed himself away from the wall, righted his glasses, which had slipped down his nose, and smoothed back the half dozen hairs remaining on his head.
“Thank goodness, Martin. Wherever have you been? We’ve all been so dreadfully worried about you. We were quite sure something ghastly had happened to you. Are you hurt? Were you in an accident? Did you get lost? What on earth happened to you?”
Martin brushed imaginary dust from his trousers, then straightened as much as his bowed shoulders would allow. “I’m not at liberty to say, madam.”
Taken aback, Elizabeth said tartly, “Martin Chezzlewit, you have been missing for an entire night. Half the village has been out searching for you-and still are, by all accounts. Violet and myself, as well as Sadie and Polly, were out until after midnight looking for you. You have worried us half to death and now you calmly say you can’t tell me where you were or what you were doing?”
“That is correct, madam.” He glanced across the hallway to the grandfather clock. “I do believe lunch is ready. Perhaps we should retire to the kitchen before Violet has a persnickety fit.” He turned his back on her and began shuffling in his snail’s-pace gait toward the kitchen steps.
Greatly annoyed, Elizabeth followed him. Having endured so much agony over the past twenty-four hours, she was determined to find out exactly what Martin was up to, and why he refused to talk about it.
Judging from the raised voices in the kitchen, Sadie and Polly had already arrived for their meals. Rather than wait for Martin to make the tedious climb down the stairs, Elizabeth passed him and reached the kitchen ahead of him.
She pushed open the door and the voices abruptly ceased. Violet busied herself at the stove, while Polly sat at the table with Sadie. Both girls jumped to their feet as Elizabeth entered.
She answered their greetings then turned to Violet, whose concentration was on the stew she was spooning onto the dinner plates. “Did Martin tell you where he was last night?”
Violet shook her head without turning around. “Don’t talk to me about that old fool. Gone all night he was, and not a word as to where he’s been. Won’t say anything, except he’s ‘not at liberty to say.’ ”
She’d uttered the last words in a high-pitched voice that was supposed to mimic Martin’s quavery one. Polly giggled, while Sadie’s face seemed drawn and tense.
“Well,” Elizabeth said, taking her seat at the table, “he will have to tell us sooner or late
r. He can’t expect us to simply ignore his absence, when it caused so much fuss. What am I going to tell George, or the people who were out looking for him? Can you imagine what Rita Crumm will say when she finds out he’s back and not a word about where he’s been?”
Violet sniffed. “Rita Crumm would make a storm in a teacup about anything you did, as you well know. I wouldn’t go worrying your head about her.”
“Yeah, m’m,” Polly said, reaching for a jagged slice of bread that looked as if it had been hacked off the loaf. “That Rita’s jealous of you, that’s all. Everybody knows that.”
Elizabeth sighed. “I really don’t know what she has to be jealous about. What with all the responsibilities of taking care of the estate and the tenants, and all the repairs that need doing to the manor, the dreadful crimes that have been committed in the village, and the incompetence of the constabulary…”
She paused for breath and Violet finished for her, “Not to mention a certain American major who hasn’t been around lately.”
That most of all, Elizabeth thought gloomily.
“Even with all that, m’m,” Polly said, watching Violet carry two steaming plates to the table, “I reckon Rita Crumm would change places with you in a moment.”
“That woman needs to be taken down a peg or two.” Violet placed a plate in front of Elizabeth. “Just because she formed the Housewives League doesn’t make her a blinking god. You’d think she was winning the war all by herself, to hear her talk. Makes me sick, she does.”
“The Housewives League.” Polly made a sound of disgust in her throat. “That lot cause more trouble than Hitler’s bombs do. What with their watching for submarines and keeping guard on the cliffs with their pots and pans, hunting for spies, poking their noses into everything, and messing everything up.”
“They’ve done good things, too,” Elizabeth reminded her. “They’ve knitted woollies for the military, collected tinfoil, kept victory gardens, and held bazaars and fetes to raise money for planes and ammunition.”
The door swung open just then and Martin crept in, sending everyone into silence. They all sat, staring at him expectantly, while he shuffled over to the table and took his seat.
An Unmentional Murder Page 4