An Unmentionable Murder (5 page)

He came to a halt in front of her and cleared his throat. “It weren't Martin, your ladyship. Thank the good Lord.”

She swallowed hard, biting back a cry of relief. “Thank you, George,” she said when she could trust her voice again. “Who is it, then? Did you recognize the victim?”

“Yes, m'm, I did. It were Clyde Morgan.”

The name sounded familiar, and she furrowed her brow. “I'm sorry, whom did you say?”

“The rag and bone man,” George said, glancing back at the doctor, who was getting to his feet. “Poor devil. Doc says it looks like he done himself in.”

Shocked, Elizabeth stared at him in dismay. She was about to ask him how the victim had died when George added, “Excuse me, your ladyship, but it seems the doc's finished so I'll need to have a word with him.”

He started off to meet Dr. Sheridan, and Elizabeth followed purposefully behind him. “I meant in private, m'm,” he said, when she caught up with him. “This is police business.”

“The victim is a resident of Sitting Marsh,” Elizabeth said firmly. “That makes it my business, too.”

Dr. Sheridan joined them just then, and apparently didn't have any qualms about divulging the results of his investigation. “Gunshot to the side of the head,” he said, his voice clipped and professional. “Died instantly. The gun's still in his hand. I'm not an expert but it looks like a German pistol. Nasty business, that. Been dead at least twelve hours, poor blighter. Not a good way to go, all alone like that.”

“Probably would never have known he were there if it hadn't been for that mutt digging him up,” George said, with a bit more relish than Elizabeth felt necessary.

“What about his family?” she asked George. “They must be worrying about him, wondering where he is.”

George nodded. “Got a wife and kids at home. I s'pose I'll have to get on down there and notify the widow.” He looked hopefully at Elizabeth. “I do hate to do that job.”

“I'll come with you if you like,” she offered at once. “I don't know what comfort I can give the poor woman, but it might be a help to her to have another woman there.”

“Good idea!” George looked at the motorcycle as if he wished it would blow up. “Why don't I meet you down there? The good doctor will give me a lift, I'm sure.”

Dr. Sheridan appeared not to hear. He was staring at the ruined building with a frown of irritation. “Is that Carbunkle chap nosing around the body?” he barked, to no one in particular. “He's got no business doing that, pesky fellow.” Still muttering to himself, he strode off toward the pile of wreckage, presumably to chase off Captain Carbunkle, who hovered over something that, thankfully, Elizabeth couldn't see from there.

Not that she was particularly squeamish. She'd had occasion to view more than one dead body since inheriting her position from her late father. On the other hand, if she could avoid staring at human remains, she greatly preferred to do so. Murder, or in this case suicide, was such a terrible waste of a life.

An acute pang of anxiety caused her to turn away from George. Although the dead man was not Martin, she still didn't know where he was, and then there was Earl, who, for all she knew, could be—No! She would not even entertain the thought.

“You all right there, m'm?” George inquired, sounding more curious than concerned.

“Quite.” Elizabeth blinked hard and turned back to him. “The doctor could be occupied here for some time. He has to make arrangements for the body to be taken to the morgue, and I doubt that he'll want to go out of his way to give you a lift. So I suggest you stop behaving like a baby, George, and get back in the sidecar. We need to notify Mrs. Morgan before the village grapevine gets hold of the news.”

Looking affronted by her sharp comments, George squeezed once more into the tiny compartment. “I don't think we need to be in quite such a hurry going back, your ladyship,” he muttered. “There's that nasty curve going down the hill, and I don't like the feel of leaving the ground when you take the corners at breakneck speed like that.”

Elizabeth pursed her lips. “I shall take your concern into consideration on the way back,” she said stiffly.

“Thank you, m'm.”

“Not at all, George.” She stomped hard on the kick start and the engine roared to life. Sorely tempted to take off at top speed, she curbed her resentment and cruised from the site and out onto the road, doing her best to avoid the ruts and bumps.

Following George's directions, she sailed sedately down the hill into the village and pulled up in front of an untidy-looking house with a front garden that had been sadly neglected. Remnants of dying hollyhocks, limp dahlias, and forlorn daisies fought with each other for breathing space among the choking weeds, which had encroached upon the pathway and filled the cracks with gleeful profusion.

Picking her way up the path, Elizabeth cringed at the sight. Plants were living things, too, and deserved better. With George hovering behind her, she waited on the cluttered porch for someone to open the front door.

CHAPTER 4

When the door finally opened, the woman who stood there looked as if she'd just that moment fallen out of bed. The dressing gown she wore could have stood a good washing, her light brown hair hung in dismal strands around her face, and her eyes were red-rimmed and underlined with dark shadows. For a moment Elizabeth wondered if she'd already heard the news.

“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 surprisingly 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.”