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.