An Unmentional Murder

by Kate Kingsbury

  “Oh, Mr. Redding’s not here, your ladyship,”-she opened the door wider-“but he should be home soon if you’d care to come in and wait. He’s just gone down to the harbor to help his friend unload his catch for the day.”

  Elizabeth stepped inside the immaculate front room, and looked around with pleasure. Bright yellow cushions with white daisy appliqués decorated the brown sofa and armchairs, giving a splash of color to the room. Yellow and white checkered curtains hung at the windows, and a vase of daisies sat in the middle of the highly polished dining table.

  “How refreshing,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “I love daisies; they always seem to be smiling somehow.”

  Mrs. Redding’s laughter echoed across the room. “I know what you mean. If you’ll care to sit down, I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “Oh, please don’t bother.” Elizabeth sat down on a comfortable armchair and removed her scarf. “I’d like to talk to you if you don’t mind, Mrs. Redding.”

  “Not at all, and please, call me Marion. Everybody does.”

  “Thank you.” Elizabeth paused, then added carefully, “I was so very sorry to hear about your daughter’s tragedy. What a terrible accident that was.”

  Marion Redding’s face clouded. “Indeed it was. Sheila is our only child, and I didn’t think Bob was ever going to get over what happened to her. Not that one ever really gets over something like that, but we’ve managed to come to terms with it, and that’s the best we can hope for.”

  “I suppose there’s no hope that your daughter will recover?”

  “None at all.” Marion Redding sank onto the sofa, her hands clasped together. “Sheila will spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair, however long that may be.

  She doesn’t know anything that’s going on around her. It’s like she’s asleep all the time, except her eyes are open. Sometimes she cries, but no one knows why, and it’s so sad to see her like that.”

  “It must be very hard for you and your husband,” Elizabeth said quietly. “I suppose you’ve heard that Clyde Morgan, the man responsible, has passed away?”

  Marion nodded. “We heard he’d shot himself. Bob said he was probably eaten up with guilt for what he did and couldn’t live with it anymore.”

  “And what do you think?”

  The other woman sighed. “I really don’t know, your ladyship. It’s been more than two years, after all, and Clyde Morgan didn’t strike me as the kind of man who would wallow in guilt over something that was an accident, no matter how badly it turned out.”

  A harsh voice came from the doorway, making them both jump. “What difference does it make? The miserable bugger’s dead, and that’s true justice.”

  Elizabeth stared at the man who’d just entered the room. He wore a dark sweater and a cloth cap, and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. He needed a shave and shadows underlined his dark eyes. His scowl drew his thick brows together and in one hand he held an axe, making him all the more intimidating.

  “For heaven’s sake, Bob!” Marion uttered a nervous laugh and got up from the sofa. “That’s no way to greet the lady of the manor. This is Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton. She wants to talk to you.”

  Bob Redding appeared unaffected by this announcement, though he did remove his cap. Very deliberately, he closed the door with an ominous thud. “Something I can do for you, your ladyship?”

  Feeling somewhat unsettled by this bear of a man, Elizabeth said quietly, “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Redding. I do trust you are recovering from your injuries?”

  He came farther into the room, his face a mask of indifference. “As well as can be expected, I suppose.”

  “He’s expecting to go back to his unit in a week or two,” Marion said hurriedly. “Aren’t you, Bob?”

  Her husband didn’t answer, but kept his gaze on Elizabeth’s face, his eyes narrowed and wary.

  “Well, I won’t keep you long.” Elizabeth met his gaze steadily. “I just dropped by to let you know about the sudden death of Clyde Morgan. Your wife tells me you’ve already heard about it.”

  Not a flicker of expression changed in the man’s gray eyes. “Yes, we did. Can’t say I’m sorry.” He ignored his wife’s gasp of dismay. “As far as I’m concerned, the skunk got what he deserved.”

  “I can understand your bitterness, Mr. Redding.” Feeling at a distinct disadvantage, Elizabeth got to her feet. “I imagine most people would feel the same way in your shoes.”

  “That’s not to say I killed him.”

  Marion uttered another distressed cry. “I’m sure her ladyship didn’t mean-”

  “Oh, I think she did,” Bob Redding said, his voice harsh and threatening. “Isn’t that why you’re here, your ladyship? To accuse me of murdering Clyde Morgan?”

  CHAPTER 10

  “For heaven’s sake, Clara! Get a move on, will you?” Marge stopped for the umpteenth time and waited for her friend to catch up with her.

  Panting and puffing, Clara trudged down the lane toward her, her face red and sweaty. “I’m hot,” she announced unnecessarily as she drew even with Marge.

  “One minute you’re freezing, the next you’re roasting.” Marge jabbed a finger in her direction. “Take off your cardigan, you twit. No wonder you’re so hot.”

  “I feel the cold.” Clara swept a critical gaze up and down Marge’s body. “I don’t have no fat to keep me warm, like some people.”

  Marge bristled at that. “Hey, are you saying I’m fat?”

  All the fight went out of Clara. “No, silly, of course not. I’m just tired, that’s all. Let’s forget about the Germans and go home.”

  “Forget about the Germans!” Marge’s voice was shrill with disbelief. “Are you daft? We came all this way, didn’t we? What if the place is running alive with Nazis? If we don’t warn the village, they could be all over us by tonight.”

  Clara’s face lost its ruddy glow. “Well, if there are Germans in the windmill, you’ve probably warned them by now. It’s right over there, behind you.”

  Marge swung around. “Gawd, I didn’t realize we were that close.” She lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. “We’d better duck down out of sight.”

  Clara immediately dropped to a crouch. “How are we going to sneak up there without them seeing us? There’s no trees around here to hide us.”

  “There’s trees on the other side of it. We’ll work our way around and come in from that side.”

  “I still think we should have gone to the police station for help.”

  “We’ll go when we’re sure they’re there,” Marge insisted. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “I can’t walk like this.” Clara stuck her foot out and tried to waddle forward in the crouch.

  Marge muffled a giggle. “You look like a crab.”

  Clara shot to her feet. “I’m going home.”

  Grabbing her arm, Marge said quickly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. Look, let’s just walk normal until we get past the windmill. Even if they see us, they won’t know we’re looking for them. They’ll just think we’re out for a stroll. Then, once we get past them, we can duck back.”

  “What if they shoot us while we’re going past?”

  Marge hadn’t thought of that. She felt a sudden urge to pee. “Don’t be silly,” she said, more in an effort to convince herself than anything. “Of course they’re not going to shoot us. They don’t want everyone to know where they are, do they? How are they going to take everyone by surprise if we all know they’re there?”

  Clara didn’t look too sure of herself, but she trotted along by Marge’s side, looking as if she were ready to bolt at the slightest sound.

  Marge wasn’t about to admit that her heart was pounding hard enough to come right through her chest by the time they’d reached the far side of the windmill. Any minute she’d expected to hear a bullet or two whine over her head, and it was a bit of an anticlimax when all remained quiet and peaceful.

  For several minutes they stood there, wait
ing to get their breath back while they stared at the rickety wooden walls of the dilapidated windmill. No branches stirred in the midday sun. No birds twittered, no squirrels chattered, no inquisitive field mouse or rabbit rustled through the tall grass. Nothing but a tall, dark, forbidding windmill with silent sails and darkened windows. It seemed as if everything were waiting for something to happen. Something bad.

  Marge shivered as the creepy feeling crawled down her back. “I don’t like this. It’s too quiet. Like someone’s in there, watching us.”

  Clara uttered a whimper of fright. “I want to go home. Now.”

  She started to walk away, but Marge grabbed a stretchy sleeve of her cardigan and dragged her to a stop. “Wait a minute! Let’s just take a quick peek and then we’ll get out of here. I swear.”

  “I’m not going in there!”

  Clara’s wail sounded loud in the hushed silence of the woods and Marge winced. “All right then. You wait here and I’ll go. Then if they shoot me, you can run back and tell George and Sid that you let me go in there alone and now I’m dead.”

  Tears formed in Clara’s eyes, but to Marge’s relief, she stammered, “All right, then. I’m coming in there with you. But if I get shot I’ll never forgive you.”

  “If you get shot, silly,” Marge said grimly, “you won’t be around to forgive me, so what’s it matter? If you hear the slightest sound, you run like hell. Got it?”

  Clara nodded, her eyes wide with fright.

  Marge wasn’t feeling too chipper herself, but she’d come this far and she wasn’t about to turn back without taking a quick look inside that windmill. A large part of the force driving her was the anticipation of seeing Rita’s smug face turn sour when she found out they’d helped catch a bunch of Germans.

  Armed with this vision, she crept forward, bending over as low as she could before the fleshy folds of her stomach got in the way. Although their footsteps made no sound on the soft grass, she could hear her friend right behind her. Clara’s teeth were chattering so loudly it was a wonder they didn’t fall out.

  They reached the door without seeing or hearing any movement from inside the dark, towering building. Very carefully, Marge pushed the door open. A loud creak made her jump nearly out of her skin. Clara muffled a shriek and Marge shot a warning look at her, her finger over her lips.

  Braced to flee at the slightest provocation, she took one step inside, then two. It smelled musty and damp, and there was another odor she didn’t want to analyze. A narrow beam of sunlight, with specks of dust swirling and dancing in its glow, slashed through the darkness from the high window above. The floor was uneven, with several of the floorboards missing or broken. Blinking to adjust to the shadows, Marge took a quick look around. Nothing. They were alone.

  Clara crept up beside her and put her mouth to Marge’s ear. “I can’t hear nothing.”

  Her hair tickled Marge’s nose and she backed away, fiercely shaking her head and pointing to the floor above them. There was another floor where somebody could hide, though if the Germans were up there, there wasn’t room for more than a half dozen or so. That made her feel a little better.

  The two of them stood absolutely still, barely breathing, while the silence thickened about them. Then Clara spoke in her normal voice, spiking Marge’s nerves.

  “There’s no one up there. Let’s go home.”

  “Shh!” Marge hissed at her, then froze as a sharp snap sounded overhead.

  All color drained from Clara’s face. “What’s that?”

  Marge swallowed. “Could be old wood. You know how it creaks. Or maybe a rat.”

  Clara squealed. “I hate rats.”

  So did Marge. What’s more, her body ached with tension, and her chest hurt from not breathing deeply enough. “All right,” she murmured, “let’s go home.”

  Clara had turned toward the door and Marge had taken one step when the unimaginable happened. Above their heads they heard a distinct sound-a loud and explosive sneeze.

  Marge stared at Clara, who stared right back at her, with eyes almost popping out of her head. Then, without a word, she bolted out the door with Marge hot on her heels, and they didn’t stop running until they were all the way down the lane and back on the coast road.

  Elizabeth did her best to ignore the axe in Bob Redding’s hand as she faced him across the room. “I’m not here to accuse anyone, Mr. Redding,” she said quietly. “But I would like to know why you think I would accuse someone of murdering Clyde Morgan, when the police are convinced it was suicide.”

  Bob Redding turned back to the door and leaned the axe against the doorjamb. When he faced them again, his expression had softened considerably. “Beg your pardon, your ladyship. I was a bit ahead of you, that’s all. My mind gets a little blurry when that… when I hear the name Morgan.”

  “He didn’t mean no harm-,” Marion began, then subsided into silence when her husband shot her a vicious glare.

  “I don’t know if Morgan died by his own hand or someone else’s,” Bob Redding went on, “but I do know I weren’t the only one to hold a grudge against him. I heard somewhere that the gun was in his right hand. Everyone that knew Morgan knows he was left-handed. He couldn’t see out of his right eye, and he was always saying how lucky it was he was left-handed.”

  “He could have shot himself that way out of spite,” Marion said, braving her husband’s scowl. “You know, just to make the constables think it was someone else that killed him.”

  Bob uttered a scornful grunt. “He weren’t that clever.”

  Marion stared at her husband in bewilderment. “But you said you thought he did it because of the guilt.”

  He nodded. “That’s right, I did. But that was before I heard about the gun being in the wrong hand. The more I thought about it, the more I changed my mind. Morgan wasn’t the kind who’d do himself in.”

  “Well, it couldn’t be you, anyway,” Marion said, glancing at Elizabeth as if to convince her. “You weren’t even here the night Clyde Morgan died. You were visiting Sheila at the sanitarium in North Horsham, weren’t you, Bob?”

  Bob sent his wife a strange look that Elizabeth couldn’t interpret. “I reckon I had as good a reason as anyone to want him dead,” he said slowly, “but there are plenty of others. Ned Widdicombe, for instance.”

  Marion gasped and shot another scared look at Elizabeth. “I don’t think Ned would…” Her voice trailed off as once more Bob glared at her.

  “Who is Ned Widdicombe?” Elizabeth asked gently.

  “He’s a butcher, lives in North Horsham.” Bob waved a hand at the chair Elizabeth had just vacated. “Sit down, your ladyship, and make yourself comfortable. I’ll tell you all about Ned Widdicombe.”

  Reluctantly, Elizabeth lowered herself onto the chair. This big man made her uncomfortable, though if asked she’d be hard-pressed to explain why. Maybe it was the secret signals he was exchanging with his wife, or the evil look in his eyes whenever he mentioned Clyde Morgan’s name. Whatever it was, she sensed an undercurrent of tension beneath the affable expression he now presented to her.

  “Ned’s mother used to live two doors away from us, in that little green house with the white fence.” Bob walked over to a vacant chair and sat down. Holding his cap between his knees, he paused, as if sorting out what to say next. Finally, he went on, “Not long ago, Morgan came down here collecting, as he called it. If you ask me, it was no better than begging.”

  He ignored Marion’s small sound of protest. “Anyway, my dear wife gave away some of my clothes to him, and books I hadn’t read yet-”

  “You’d had those books for years and never read them,” Marion protested.

  Ignoring her, Bob went on, “And a lot of other things she had no business giving away. Morgan must have thought he was on to a good thing. He went down to all the cottages looking for more bounty. That’s when he met Mrs. Widdicombe. Widow she were, must have been in her eighties.”

  “Eighty-four, she were,” Marion confir
med, then squirmed after yet another nasty look from her husband.

  “Anyway, Morgan goes inside, picks up just about everything he could lay his hands on, and carts it off to sell it all. By the time Ned heard about it, the lot had gone. Morgan told him the old lady said to help himself to what he wanted, so he did. Ned was spitting mad. They had to hold him off Morgan, so I heard. Kept yelling at him that he’d pay him back for what he did.”

  “I see.” Elizabeth shook her head. “What a dreadful thing to do.”

  “What’s even worse,” Bob said, “it was such a shock for the old girl, she dropped dead. Marion used to pop in there every day just to keep an eye on her, since Ned could only get down on Sundays, and she found her dead on the floor. Doctor said it was her heart and the shock of losing all her belongings.”

  “Ever so sad, it was,” Marion chimed in. “Such a shock to find her like that.”

  “Anyhow,” Bob said, getting to his feet, “if anyone had good reason to bump off Clyde Morgan, I’d say it were Ned Widdicombe.”

  Elizabeth got up, too. “Well, perhaps I’ll have a word with Mr. Widdicombe.”

  “He’s got a shop in the High Street,” Bob told her. “You can’t miss it. Widdicombe the Butcher’s. Got a big sign in front of it.” He opened the door, as if anxious to be rid of his visitor. “Thank you for calling on us, your ladyship.”

  Elizabeth nodded at Marion, then moved to the door. “Thank you for your time. I hope you are soon fully recovered, and I wish you all the best of luck when you go back.”

  For the first time, Bob Redding’s eyes softened. “Very nice of you, Lady Elizabeth. Much obliged, I’m sure.”

  Elizabeth walked slowly down the garden path, fighting the urge to look back to see if Bob Redding was watching her. She had the feeling his eyes followed her until she had started her motorcycle and had ridden down the lane and out of sight.

  “Do you think you’ll go back to America with Joe?” Polly asked, leaning her elbows on the sink to get a better view of the back garden.

  Sadie uttered a scornful laugh. “What, me? Go to America? What the heck would I do in America? Full of cowboys and Indians, it is.”