An Unmentionable Murder (19 page)

Gently parting the blond hair, Elizabeth felt a small knot beginning to rise on the child's head. “Fetch me a flannel soaked in cold water,” she ordered Tommy.

He hesitated for a moment, then fled into the kitchen.

“There, there, sweetheart,” Elizabeth murmured, folding her arms around the sniveling child. “We'll soon make it all better.”

Katie answered her by bursting into loud sobs.
“I want my mummy!”

Tommy came back with a dripping facecloth and Elizabeth wrung it out over the hearth before applying it to the squirming Katie's head.

The child yelled at the contact, then sobbed while Elizabeth rocked her in her arms.

Gradually the sobs subsided, and Elizabeth met Tommy's anxious gaze. “She'll be all right,” she assured him. “It's just a bump. It will stop hurting soon.” She glanced more closely at his jaw. The bruises were now fading to an ugly yellow. “I hope your face has stopped hurting, as well.”

Tommy snatched his gaze away from her and stared at his sister instead. “It's all right,” he mumbled.

Elizabeth decided now was the time to test her theory. “Your mother said you'd been fighting that morning I was here, but that's not quite true, is it? Bruises take one or two days to turn that deep purple. Someone else hit you before that day, isn't that right?”

Tommy shook his head fiercely, pressed his lips together, and stared down at the floor.

“Tommy,” Elizabeth said gently, “was it your father who hit you?”

The boy remained silent.

Elizabeth tried again. “It's all right, Tommy. No one is going to get into trouble as long as you tell the truth.”

He looked at her then, and the look of dread on his face chilled her heart. “Mum said we were never to talk about my father again.” His gaze shifted to a spot behind her, and his eyes widened.

With a jolt of apprehension, Elizabeth turned her head.

Iris stood in the doorway, her eyes blazing with suppressed fury. “Might I ask what you are doing here in my house, Lady Elizabeth?”

Katie wailed, struggled out of Elizabeth's arms, and ran to her mother, sobbing bitterly.

Iris stooped and gathered her up, then glared at Elizabeth as she slowly straightened.

“Katie fell and bumped her head.” Tommy was in such a rush to explain, his words tumbled over each other. “The lady came in to help and she put a flannel on her head and she stopped crying and I was just—”

“Tommy!” Iris rapped out sharply. “That's enough. Take your sister to the bedroom and make sure she doesn't fall down again.”

Katie wailed again and clung to her mother's neck. “Don't wanna go!”

Iris disentangled the child's arms and handed her over to her brother. Katie's wails filled the house as Tommy carried her off, then they faded behind the door he closed behind them.

“I apologize, Mrs. Morgan,” Elizabeth said, gathering up her handbag. “I came to see you, and Tommy opened the door just as Katie cried out. I only wanted to help, that's all.”

Iris nodded stiffly and walked over to the couch, where she picked up the wet facecloth. “Thank you, your ladyship. What did you want to see me about?”

“I wanted to ask you . . .” Elizabeth paused, then took a deep breath. “I wanted to ask you if your husband physically abused your children.”

Iris stared at her for a moment, then turned away. “If you're asking if he spanked them, well, yes, he did. Kids need discipline, you know.”

“I'm asking if he abused them,” Elizabeth said softly. “Those bruises on Tommy's jaw. They weren't caused by him fighting with other boys that morning. Those were days-old bruises. I suspect they were caused by his father.”

Iris's bottom lip trembled, then she said sharply, “That's nonsense. Clyde was a strict father, but he wouldn't beat his children.”

“I think he did, Mrs. Morgan.” Elizabeth moved closer to her. “I think that's why Katie hits her teddy bear and shouts at it. She's copying her father. Clyde Morgan abused your children, didn't he? I think you were frightened for them. He had to be stopped, before he did them real harm.”

“No!” Iris turned on her, eyes blazing. “You don't know anything! Clyde shot himself. I don't know why, but that's what happened. The constable said so. It's over and done with. My husband is dead. Why can't you just leave it at that and leave us alone!”

Elizabeth's glance strayed to the armchair in the corner of the room. “The first time I came here you mentioned you'd washed that chair.”

Iris sent a wild look at the chair. “What's that got to do with anything?”

Elizabeth sighed. “Forgive me, Mrs. Morgan, but taking into account the general look of your house and garden, it seemed odd to me that you would go to the trouble of washing an armchair unless you had a specific reason.”

Iris's gaze was steady when it met hers. And as cold as a winter's sea. “The cat pissed on it,” she said bluntly.

For a long moment the two women stared at each other, then Elizabeth sighed again. “Well, I'll take my leave. I hope Katie's bump on the head gets better soon.”

“I'll see you to the door.”

Elizabeth stepped out into the hallway with Iris following close behind.

As she opened the door for Elizabeth, Iris said quietly, “My husband shot himself, Lady Elizabeth. For everyone's sake, let's leave it at that.”

Bidding her good-bye, Elizabeth hurried down the path to her motorcycle. She was more certain than ever that Clyde Morgan had died in that house. Probably in the armchair that Iris had gone to all that trouble to wash. There didn't seem to be any way she could prove it, however.

The sun had dipped below the level of the trees as she roared up the hill toward the manor. Moths danced in the fading dusk, and an evening mist crept from the ocean across the sands. Usually this time of day gave Elizabeth a sense of peace, as if the countryside were getting ready to put away its cares and rest for the night until the dawn heralded a new day.

Tonight, however, she felt overwrought, her thoughts churning in a restless chaotic whirl that drained her mind. She put it down to the exchange she'd had with Iris Morgan. Her instincts insisted that Iris had killed her husband to protect her children, but without the proof she couldn't be certain of that.

Then again, she wasn't at all sure she'd be doing the right thing by hunting for the truth. What would happen to Tommy and Katie if Iris were imprisoned for killing her husband? All she could think about was Katie clinging to her mother's neck, sobbing.

How could she condemn a woman for going to such dreadful lengths to protect her children? After everything they'd suffered, wouldn't it be better for them to have at least one parent to love and take care of them in their own home?

To what kind of life would she be subjecting them if she was successful in sending their mother to prison? Could she honestly live with that on her conscience? What would be best for the children—to live with the woman who'd murdered their father through her love for them, or perhaps be separated and miserable in a strange home?

Wrestling with the problem gave her a headache. Feeling incredibly weary and out of sorts, she cruised up the driveway and into the courtyard.

The moment she turned the corner of the building she saw the jeeps and her heart sang. Her problems fading, she hastily wheeled her motorcycle into the stable then hurried around to the kitchen door. There was no time to wait for Martin to open the front door, assuming he was even there to open it. All she could think about now was seeing Earl again.

She burst into the kitchen, realizing as she did so that she was late for supper. Violet was at the sink, scrubbing violently at a pot with a stiff brush.

Surprised to see her housekeeper engaged in such a menial task, Elizabeth threw her handbag down on a chair, saying brightly, “Shouldn't Sadie be doing that?”

“She should,” Violet said crisply, without turning around, “but she's off somewhere and I needed to keep my hands busy. You're late, by the way.”

“I'm sorry.” Elizabeth glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I had to stop by . . . somewhere, and it took longer than I expected.” She looked at the stove, where something that smelled very good simmered in a saucepan. “I'm hungry now, though.”

“There's soup and there's bread.” Violet tossed her head in the direction of the table. “Sit down and I'll get some for you.”

Something in Violet's voice alerted Elizabeth. She sat down at the table and folded her hands. “Violet? Is something wrong?”

Violet threw the brush on the draining board with a loud clatter and turned to the stove. “Those blasted Germans,” she muttered. “They've really gone and done it this time.”

Elizabeth frowned. “Gone and done what?”

Violet turned to face her, and Elizabeth was alarmed to see her eyes swollen and red, as if she'd been crying. “They've got a new kind of bomb,” she said, her voice trembling. “It's a terrible thing. It flies without a pilot, all by itself. Then, when it gets over London, the engine stops and the airplane falls to the ground and blows up.”

“Oh, my,” Elizabeth murmured, the cold feeling in her chest beginning to spread throughout her body. “How awful.”

Violet sniffed, and cleared her throat. “They've already started sending them over. They're falling on London, flattening houses and blowing big holes in the streets. The explosions are terrible, so they say.”

Elizabeth carefully watched her housekeeper's face. Something else was wrong. Something she didn't want to think about. A sort of premonition that had been simmering in her mind, like the soup on the stove, ever since she'd left Iris Morgan's house.

“Anyway,” Violet went on, “the Americans have been going over to Germany and bombing the factories. Trying to stop them, they are. They're trying to shoot them down, too, but they say a lot of the buzz bombs will get through.”

“Buzz bombs?”

“That's what they're calling them, because of the buzzing noise they make. They sound just like an angry swarm of bees, they say.”

“How frightening.”

“Yes, it is.” Violet gulped. “Lizzie, your major went over there today.”

Now she knew. She felt like crying but her eyes were dry. Her mind refused to believe what she knew she was about to hear. “What are you trying to tell me, Violet?”

“He made it back to base, Lizzie . . . but—” Her voice broke. “He crashed when he landed. They don't know . . . I don't know if he's . . .”

She had to be strong. She'd known all along this could happen, and in some ways she'd been prepared for it. But oh, God, no one had told her how much it would hurt. No one had told her the pain could obliterate everything from her mind, except the realization of how much she might have lost.

“Where is he?” Her voice seemed unrecognizable, even to her.

“The hospital in North Horsham. Lizzie, I—”

“I'm going there.” She surged to her feet, heedless of Violet's protests.

“You can't, Lizzie. You can't ride that motorcycle all that way in the dark. Wait until tomorrow. You'll have better news then.”

Elizabeth headed for the door, afraid to trust her voice to answer Violet.

“You haven't had your dinner yet,” Violet said, her voice rising. “Besides—”

Already halfway up the stairs, Elizabeth never heard the end of the sentence.

Outside in the cool night air, her mind cleared somewhat, and as she made her way around to the stable and passed the jeeps in the courtyard, she made a quick decision. Traveling by jeep would be faster and a good deal safer than the motorcycle in the dark.

She was tempted to try driving it herself, but soon dismissed that idea. After one memorable attempt to drive one of the jeeps, which had ended with her overturning the vehicle, she had avoided getting behind the wheel again, despite Earl's attempt to persuade her to allow him to teach her.

Earl.
Hurrying up the back stairs to the east wing, she still couldn't grasp the fact that Earl was injured, possibly . . . No, she would not believe that. Until she actually saw for herself that all was lost, she would hang on to a shred of hope, and cling to that for now. She would not even think beyond that, because to do so was to look into the gates of hell.

As luck would have it, several of the officers were getting ready to depart as she arrived at their quarters. Despite all they had been through, and the fact that this might be the only respite they would get from the horrors for some time to come, to a man they enthusiastically volunteered to take her to North Horsham.

So adamant were they, that it took several tosses of a coin before two officers were elected to go, both of them assuring her they would much rather be visiting Major Monroe in North Horsham than getting drunk at the Arms.

Leading the two men down the stairs, Elizabeth found their clattering footsteps reassuring. She would not have wanted to make that journey alone, no matter how anxious she was to find out about Earl's condition.

She was even more gratified when the rest of the officers, instead of heading off in the opposite direction to the Tudor Arms, followed them all the way into North Horsham in a small convoy of jeeps.

Crowding into the admissions area of the large hospital, the men caused quite a commotion, until a stern sister in starched skirts arrived on the scene and sternly ordered them to be quiet or leave.

The men ushered Elizabeth forward, then stood silent as she asked the sister the fateful question. “I'm inquiring about Major Earl Monroe. I understand he was brought into this hospital sometime today.”