An Unmentional Murder

by Kate Kingsbury

  “Priscilla Carbunkle, then,” Marge said, starting to giggle. “That’s a mouthful and a half, ain’t it?”

  “Never mind that,” Rita said, her voice sharp with impatience. “What did you mean about Clyde Morgan not shooting himself?”

  Basking in the glory of attention, Marge gave her a smug smile. “Well, Priscilla said as how Wally saw the body lying in the ruins.” She rolled her eyes. “All bloody he were, with half his head blown away.”

  Florrie squealed again, louder this time, and a chatter arose among the women, almost drowning out Rita’s harsh command.

  “Quiet! Quiet, I say!” She waited for order to be restored, then, as the women in the room fell silent, she addressed Marge again. “If you can’t explain what you mean without all these gory details, then we don’t want to know.”

  “Oh, all right.” Marge wiggled her feet in her sensible walking shoes. “Well, Priscilla said that Wally saw the gun in his hand and it was in his right hand. Everyone knows that Clyde Morgan was left-handed.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Nellie muttered.

  “Well, I did.” Marge glared at her.

  “You said everyone knows.”

  “I thought everyone did know.”

  “Shut up!” Rita roared. “Get on with it, Marge, or else be quiet and let the rest of us get on with the important matters.”

  Marge shrugged. “Well, all I’m saying is, if the rag and bone man was left-handed, why would he use his right hand to shoot himself? You’d think it would be more natural to use the hand he always uses, wouldn’t you?”

  Nellie stared at her. “Are you saying someone else shot him?”

  Marge took her time answering, looking from one stunned face to another. “Well, what do you think?”

  “Oh, my,” Florrie whispered. “He was murdered?”

  “By a German gun,” Clara said solemnly.

  Rita caught her breath. “A German gun? That means we could have another German spy among us.”

  “Or maybe a German pilot, like the one what bailed out over the village green that time,” Nellie suggested.

  Grasping at the frail straw in her own inimitable way, Rita prepared to turn it into a haystack. “Well, I think this calls for action from the Housewives League. If there’s another German skulking around the village, it’s up to us to ferret him out and hand him over to the authorities.”

  Marge groaned. “Not again.”

  Rita lifted her chin. “What was that, Marjorie? You have an objection to us doing our duty?”

  All heads turned toward Marge, hoping to see a battle ensue.

  Disappointing them, Marge merely shrugged. “Nothing. It’s just that I remember the last time we went looking for Germans. Almost got an innocent bird-watcher killed, we did.”

  “What about the time before,” Nellie reminded Rita, “when the German pilot hid in the windmill? Almost got your daughter killed that time.”

  “Nah,” Clara said happily. “She was sneaking him food and drink, remember?”

  All eyes switched to Rita, whose cheeks burned with resentment. Stupid woman, she thought, what did she have to bring that up for? “Never mind all that,” she said hurriedly. “Both times there really was a German in Sitting Marsh, wasn’t there?”

  A chorus of reluctant agreement answered her.

  “Very well, then. We start looking for this one. After all, if it wasn’t for us, no one would even know there was one lurking about.”

  After thinking about it for a moment or two, Rita couldn’t exactly remember how they came to know there was one this time, but she didn’t let that stop her. After all the excitement of the factory blowing up had died down, things had been pretty quiet in Sitting Marsh. She was just dying to get her hands on something else to get excited about, and a possible German spy in their presence, no matter how vague the details, was the perfect answer to her prayers.

  CHAPTER 7

  “It’s like I always said, give a man enough rope, he’ll end up hanging hisself.” George nodded to emphasize his words.

  Elizabeth, seated opposite him on the miserably uncomfortable chair, frowned. “I really don’t think that applies to Clyde Morgan, George. As I’ve said, the fact that the gun was found in his right hand raises some questions, don’t you think?”

  George passed a hand over his head, a habit which Elizabeth suspected had contributed greatly to the fact that he was almost completely bald. “He’d probably been boozing. Men do some very strange things when they’re sozzled.”

  “That’s as may be.” Elizabeth shifted her hips to a more comfortable position. “But I maintain that if he was in a befuddled state, as you suggest, his actions would be automatic, would they not? His actual decision might well have been reached under the influence of alcohol, but if I picture a man hopeless enough to end his own life, surely he would make that last desperate move in a way most natural to him. He would reach for the gun with his left hand. I’m convinced of it.”

  “Well, we’ll never know now, will we.” George leaned back in his chair and laced his stubby fingers together across his chest. “Iris Morgan has identified the gun as the one belonging to her husband, and the inspector is satisfied it were suicide, so the case is closed.”

  Elizabeth pinched her lips together. “Don’t you find it odd that the man should choose such a dismal place for his last act on earth? All alone, in the ruins of a deserted building?”

  Obviously put out by her insistence, George gave her a baleful look. “I find it odd, your ladyship, that anyone would take a gun and blow his brains out. That’s what’s odd. Poor sod must have been in a terrible state to do such a thing. As for where he did it, well, I’d say he chose that place because he thought no one would find him and know what he’d done. He knew the building was coming down. Sort of a burial place for him, weren’t it.”

  “And you think that Clyde Morgan, from all accounts a harsh bully of a man with a temper to be feared, worried about what people would think of him if they knew he’d killed himself?”

  George dropped his hands to the table. “I didn’t think you knew the gentleman, your ladyship.”

  “I didn’t,” Elizabeth said shortly. “But from everything I’ve heard and seen, it wasn’t that difficult to draw that conclusion.”

  “If you’re talking about that dart incident-”

  “I’m talking about a little girl who bullies her toys in an obvious imitation of her father. And a young boy who finds it necessary to settle his differences by pummeling his friends. I’m talking about at least two people who have mentioned Clyde Morgan’s hot temper. What other conclusion would you have me reach?”

  George’s eyes grew wary. “What are you saying, exactly?”

  “I’m saying that from what I’ve heard, Clyde Morgan was a man who collected enemies. I’m saying there’s a strong possibility that someone else shot him and made it look like suicide. The distraught father of a helpless young woman, for instance.”

  George’s eyes widened. “Bob Redding?” He shook his head violently. “No, no, your ladyship. You’re on the wrong track there. I won’t argue that he was upset by the unfortunate accident, but he’s not the kind of man who’d take a gun to someone’s head. Besides, this all happened almost two years ago. If Bob was going to do something like that he would have done it before this.”

  “Not necessarily,” Elizabeth said grimly. “Two years of watching your daughter struggle to hang on to life can create a monster out of the most docile of men.”

  “Well, no matter what you or I think, the inspector is satisfied it’s suicide.” George leaned forward to emphasize his point. “I suggest, for everyone’s peace of mind, your ladyship, that you leave it at that.”

  Elizabeth rose. “I shall keep your suggestion in mind, George. Thank you for your time.” She swept out, while George was still struggling to his feet.

  She had no attention of heeding his unwanted advice, of course. Until she was fully satisfied that every
avenue had been explored, she was not about to accept the verdict of a police inspector who rarely had time to visit Sitting Marsh, much less actually work on a case.

  The demands of a big town like North Horsham kept the inspector’s hands too full for him to worry about an insignificant little village where the death of a man could so easily be dismissed as self-inflicted. That infuriated her. If Clyde Morgan was murdered by someone else’s hand, then justice had to be done, and it appeared that once more it would be up to her to ferret out the truth.

  The saloon bar of the Tudor Arms was empty when Elizabeth entered a few minutes later. It was shortly before opening time, and she knew Alfie would be setting up the bar, though the customers would not arrive until another half hour or so-the official time when Alfie could start serving the beer.

  From then on, the ancient rafters of the centuries-old building would echo with the shouts, cheers, tinkling piano keys, and bawdy songs of the rowdy crowd filling the room.

  Elizabeth usually made sure to be gone before that happened. Not that she had anything against drinking, of course. In fact, Alfie always kept a bottle of her favorite sherry under the counter for her, ready to pour a quick one whenever she wandered in. Her early departures reflected more her reluctance to be seen hobnobbing in such doubtful company.

  Once the American GIs found the pub, they’d made it a favorite spot to relax, drink, play darts, and flirt with the village girls. It wasn’t long before word had spread to North Horsham, and a fair proportion of the female population of that town rode the bus all the way to Sitting Marsh to indulge in what had become a national pastime for a large number of British ladies-meeting Yanks.

  This was looked upon by older, more staid, and for the most part envious residents as unacceptable behavior. Everyone knew the Yanks were “overpaid, oversexed, and over here,” and if a young lady, or in some cases one more mature in years and married to boot, was reckless enough to keep company with a Yank, her reputation immediately became tarnished, and furtive whispers followed her wherever she went. This was not an environment in which the lady of the manor should indulge, as Violet was constantly reminding her.

  Nevertheless, Alfie, who was the recipient of more than one juicy secret disclosed while under the influence of several pints of ale, was an unsurpassed source of information that was, more often than not, concealed from the long arm of the law. Therefore Elizabeth felt justified in her illicit jaunts to the pub.

  Alfie greeted her with his usual enthusiasm and brought out the half-full bottle of sherry. “Been saving this for you, your ladyship,” he announced with a cheerful grin. “Don’t know when I’ll get any more, so I’ve been telling the ladies I’m out of it.”

  “That’s very good of you, Alfie.” Elizabeth settled herself at the empty bar. “I appreciate the gesture, and I hope it won’t get you into any trouble.”

  Alfie laughed. “I don’t think anyone’s going to object to me saving a spot of sherry for the lady of the manor.”

  “I don’t like to think I’m privileged. Wartime is a great equalizer, and I must sacrifice just as much as everyone else.”

  “I reckon you do your share of sacrificing, m’m.” Alfie poured a generous shot of golden liquid into the slender glass. “You do a lot for the people of this village, always calling on them and taking little extras for the ones who need it. Not to mention putting your neck out now and then when the constables are too thick to see what needs to be done.”

  “Ah, speaking of which…” Elizabeth lifted her glass and took a sip of sherry. The deliciously smooth liquid warmed her throat, and she let it slide down before finishing the sentence. “I was wondering if you happened to see Clyde Morgan in here the night before last?”

  “Aha!” Alfie nodded his head, picked up a glass tankard, and began polishing it. “I wondered when you’d get around to that. Soon as I heard about Clyde being found dead yesterday, I knew sooner or later you’d be around asking questions.”

  Elizabeth studied his face. “So you don’t think Clyde shot himself?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Alfie kept his gaze on the tankard, which seemed to glow under the frenzied friction of his polishing cloth. “All I’m saying is that Clyde Morgan was not in some people’s good books. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if someone didn’t bump him off.”

  Elizabeth took another sip of sherry. The drink had reached her stomach now and was spreading warmth throughout her body. A most pleasant feeling indeed. “Anyone in particular?”

  Alfie shot her a glance under bushy brows. “A lot of people were fed up with him. He liked his beer, and when he was drinking, he got loud and nasty. Folks didn’t like that. He was a liar, too. Always shooting his mouth off about being shot in the eye by a German soldier. Truth is, he lost that eye in a pub brawl in France early in the war. Got hit with a flying bottle. He must have forgot he told me about that one.”

  Elizabeth shuddered. “How awful. No wonder he was bad-tempered.”

  “He was the one what started it, by all accounts.” Alfie put down the tankard and picked up another one. “I was getting a bit worried about him a couple of nights ago when he was in here. Swallowing beer like it was his last day on earth, he was.” He paused in his polishing. “Blimey, come to think of it, it were his last day on earth.”

  “Did he have an argument with anyone that night?”

  “Not that I can recall. Bit quiet it were. I think I’d have known if there’d been any nasty business in here.” He began buffing the tankard again. “Like that night a few weeks back. A young kid traded his dead father’s army pistol to Clyde for a hunting knife. Two days later the kid cut himself in the arm. He got an artery, and bled to death before his mother could get help for him. She came down here after Clyde one night, crying and carrying on. Said it were all Clyde’s fault and she’d see he paid for it.”

  “Oh, dear. I do remember reading about that poor child in the paper,” Elizabeth said. “Rose Clovell’s son, Arnie. I went down to visit his mother. Poor woman, she was beside herself with grief. She’d only recently lost her husband, then to lose a son like that… What a tragedy.”

  “That’s her. Then there’s Bob Redding. His daughter’s in a wheelchair because of Clyde. ’Course, it was an accident, but if he hadn’t been drinking, he’d never have chucked a dart the wrong way and hit her in the head.”

  “Dreadful,” Elizabeth agreed. “George did mention that incident to me. I understand Mr. Redding is home on leave right now?”

  “That’s right.” Alfie lifted the glass and inspected it. “Got wounded in the invasion. He’s back home recovering.”

  “Perhaps I’ll pay him a visit,” Elizabeth murmured. “Just to see how well he’s doing.”

  “Might not be a bad idea, your ladyship.” Alfie nodded at her glass. “Another one?”

  “I don’t think so, thank you.” She slid off the stool. “I must be getting home for supper, or Violet will no doubt give me a lecture.”

  Alfie nodded. “How’s that major of yours? Back from the invasion yet?”

  Elizabeth did her best to hide her distress. “Not yet, Alfie. I expect they are all being kept busy at the base.”

  “I only asked because I saw some of his boys go by here in their jeeps a little while ago. I wondered if he was with them. They’ll probably be in later. Must say I’ve missed them. It’s been really quiet without them all singing and carrying on in here. The girls have missed them, too. Keep asking me when they’re coming back, they do.”

  Elizabeth fought for breath, before saying faintly, “Oh, I didn’t know they were back. I’ll have to alert Violet to air the beds for them.”

  Alfie grinned. “Reckon they’ll warm them up themselves once they get a few pints of beer inside them.”

  “Excuse me,” Elizabeth said abruptly. “I must run.” She was out of the door before Alfie had finished saying good-bye.

  The long summer evenings were cherished by everyone. Unhampered by the restrictions of t
he blackout, people enjoyed a freedom they were denied during the endless, miserable dark days of winter.

  Normally Elizabeth would linger on her way home to enjoy the gold and orange hues of the setting sun, or watch the evening mists gather over the downs and settle in the branches of the oak trees. Often she would pause on the edge of the cliffs and gaze over the barbed wire at the vast ocean and the black velvet of the night sky crawling toward the shore.

  This evening, however, she had but one thought in mind-to return home with as much haste as possible. Earl’s officers were back in town, and that meant he could have returned as well.

  Regretting the time she’d wasted, Elizabeth roared up the curving driveway and into the courtyard. Her leap of hope when she saw several jeeps parked near the stables made her quite breathless.

  Heart pounding, she scrambled off her motorcycle, paying scant heed to the rise of her skirt, which surely would have raised Violet’s eyebrows clear into her scalp. In a fever of impatience, she wheeled the machine into the stable and parked it there.

  The birds were so loud outside in the courtyard she could hear them from where she stood in the shadows of the empty stalls. The tiny creatures filled the air with a heavenly chorus of warbling and twittering that echoed across the quiet peace of the countryside.

  Smiling at the sound, Elizabeth was about to step out into the fading sunlight when a pair of hands settled on her shoulders. Her startled shriek resounded in the rafters of the ancient building, sending a mouse scurrying for cover.

  She whirled around, her breath catching in her throat, for there he was, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled down at her.

  Until that moment, she hadn’t realized the depth of her fear for his safety. She uttered a cry and without another thought, went into his arms. He cradled her, one hand stroking her hair while she unashamedly bawled against his shoulder.