An Unmentionable Murder (9 page)

“I'm sure it is.” Elizabeth stood. “Thank you, Mrs. Morgan. I appreciate you talking to me.”

Iris walked with her to the door. “About this gun being in Clyde's right hand . . .” She hesitated, then rushed on, “You're not thinking someone else might have shot him, like Mr. Redding, for instance? I really don't think he'd do that, m'm. Really I don't. I don't know the Reddings very well, but they seem like very nice people. I don't know why Clyde used his right hand to shoot himself, but he did a lot of things I never understood.”

Elizabeth studied her anxious face. “You may be right, Mrs. Morgan. Then again, who knows what any of us are capable of when fighting our demons?”

Iris's eyes filled with tears again. “I just wish there was something I could have done to prevent all this.”

“We can't always be there for the ones we love,” Elizabeth said softly. “No matter how much we want to be. We can't be responsible for their actions, nor blame ourselves when something goes wrong. We can only pray for them.”

Iris gave her a wobbly smile through her tears. “Oh, I do that, your ladyship. Every day of my life.”

“And so do I.” Turning her back on the tearful woman, Elizabeth walked purposefully down the garden path.

 
The weekly meeting of the Housewives League was a little late getting started that afternoon. Crowded into Rita Crumm's dinky front room, the women were avidly discussing the death of the rag and bone man, each of them embellishing on the details they'd heard.

“Shot himself with his own gun,” Marge Gunther declared, her chubby arm jerking up to imitate someone raising a gun to his head. “Blew his bloomin' brains out all over the floor, he did.” Marge's voice was powerful, overriding the rest of the chatter.

Florrie Evans, a fluttery little woman, squealed at this statement and slapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide above her fingers.

“Must have been that German gun he was always talking about,” Clara Rigglesby announced. She was Marge's best friend and secretly thought Marge should be the leader of the Housewives League instead of bossy Rita Crumm.

Rita chose that moment to make her entrance. She always waited until everyone was assembled before striding into the room to restore order. Rita loved to bring everyone to order. She was very proud of the league and the work they did for the war effort, and considered herself something of a hero for leading her stalwart, though often reluctant, members into battle.

If anyone could be credited for winning the war on the home front, Rita was determined to be in the front line. She ruled with an iron fist, and heaven help anyone who opposed her. Her greatest regret was that she wasn't born a lady of the manor. She was convinced she would have done a far better job than Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton.

Upon perceiving that no one had taken any notice of her carefully timed entrance, Rita remedied the situation by screeching at the top of her lungs, “Ladies! Order, please!”

She was gratified when the chattering women fell silent. She would have been a lot happier had they done that the second she stepped through the door, but she'd been leading this mob long enough not to expect miracles.

She was about to make her first announcement—a reminder that the annual summer fete was drawing near and she was expecting a larger amount of handmade goods this year—when, out of the blue, Marge piped up.

“We was talking about the rag and bone man blowing his brains out.”

Rita tightened her thin lips, which had the effect of making them disappear entirely. She found Marge irritating, especially when she was trying to agitate with her outrageous statements.

“Instead of gossiping about the wretched man like a bunch of starving vultures,” Rita said primly, “you should be feeling sorry for the poor widow. It could happen to any of us, you know. Losing a husband, I mean.”

The reminder that their absent husbands might not come home from the war was enough to subdue the women for a moment. But only for a moment.

Rita had barely begun to launch into her carefully prepared speech when Marge said clearly, “Well, I'm not so sure he did kill himself.”

Even Rita was stunned by this remark. She turned her piercing glare on Marge. “What on earth does that mean?”

Marge, who had arrived last as usual and had to resort to sitting on the floor, stretched out her legs in front of her. “I ran into Priscilla Pierce this morning and—”

“She's not Prissy Pierce anymore,” Nellie Smith said, with a trace of bitterness. Nellie, the only unmarried member of the league, made no secret of the fact she envied Priscilla, even if she had married a gent old enough to be Nellie's father.

“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.